


Of Templars and Travelers

by kingcaboodle



Series: Modern Ukes in Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hawke survives the Fade, Modern Girl in Thedas, Self-Indulgent, but actually good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 59,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: Who doesn't love a good self-insert? A modern girl(s) in thedas fic that has been in the works for quite some time.





	1. The End All Over Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MossPrinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MossPrinx/gifts).



Cassandra feels an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as she takes the steps down to the dungeons. Only, instead of the holding cells in the depths of Haven’s chantry, they are at Skyhold, the crumbling walls around them a physical representation of the Inquisition’s fate. _Unless_ , she thinks, _unless we’ve been sent yet another miracle_. It is highly unlikely. The Maker had turned his back on them long ago, there was no reason to think that he would send yet another agent of peace. But the scouts had sent reports of two strange women roaming through the Hinterlands. While Haven was being overrun by Red Templars, the Scouts were following the two to a small shack in the outskirts. While the soldiers were unearthing the Herald’s body from the wreckage, the scouts had watched in disbelief as these two managed to manipulate a rift, right before their eyes.

 

She pauses at the door to the dungeons, her heart racing. They had suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of the Elder One, but the magic used to seal the Breach had not been lost, even if the Herald had. _But if the reports are true,_ Cassandra tries to keep her thoughts grounded, but it’s no use. _We might have a chance at stopping him_. Pushing through the door, she prepares herself for the forces of nature lying on the other side.

 

That’s when she hears the bickering.

 

“How many times did I tell you that we were being trailed, Devi?” The first voice is slow, a soothing lull despite its obvious irritation. “But what did you tell me? ‘No, Charlie! It’s okay! They’re probably just takin’ a walk!’”

 

“To be fair,” a higher-pitched voice replies argumentatively. “They were just taking a walk. And that walk just happened to be in our general direction. For the last few months. Aren’t you the one who’s _always_ saying that we have to test the gauntlet? ‘Let’s test the gauntlet, Devi. I’m tired of trying to figure out this currency system, Devi. Stop terrorizing those rams, Devi.’ Every single day since we got here! It’s always something with you!”

 

“I wanted to test the gauntlet because that’s our ticket out of here, idiot! I didn’t want to test it in the middle of the day, in front of a crowd of onlookers!”

 

Cassandra frowns, planting herself in between the two cells. One of the women is tall, her dark eyes slightly hooded as she sits sprawled out on the floor of the cell. By comparison, her companion is pressed against the bars, her hands wrapped tightly around the metal rods, her brown eyes wild. “Regardless of who is at fault,” she says loudly, drawing their attention. “You are both here, and you will be answering to me.”

 

“I answer to _no one_.” The little one says boldly, her face still pressed firmly against the bars.

 

“Devi, shut up!”

 

“You shut up, it sounded cool!”

 

Cassandra feels her patience wearing thin. They don’t have time for foolishness. “ _Enough_!” She barks, causing them both to jump. She eyes the wild one – Devi – her gaze cold. “I don’t think you understand the situation that you find yourself in, so I will excuse your little _outbursts_. But we are running out of time, and if you want to make it out of here alive, I suggest you listen to me.” This seems to get her attention, and Cassandra continues. “Our scouts have been looking through your belongings, along with the gauntlet they took from you in the Hinterlands. You’ve been closing rifts with it, haven’t you?”

 

“Rifts,” Cassandra turns to face the other prisoner, and the woman frowns deeply. “Is that what you call them? Those glowing things that spit out those _monsters_?”

 

“They are tears in the Veil, gateways between this world and the next.” She folds her arms across her chest. “The Herald of Andraste was the only one able to seal the rifts using the Anchor. That is, until you two came along.” She removes the key from her hip, unlocking the cell doors and stepping back to asses her two captives. “There is much to discuss and little time to discuss it. Your options are to follow me and accept your fate,” she turns to the mouthy one, lifting one eyebrow, “or defy it and be killed in the process. The choice is yours.”

 

They eye each other, wide-eyed and blank-faced. Finally, the tall one speaks, her tongue rolling carefully over the words. “Well,” she shrugs, “lead the way.”


	2. Wait, What?

Charlie scans their surroundings as they’re led through the courtyard. Though she and Devi had arrived in Thedas over four years ago, the anachronisms of its architecture had never ceased to amaze her. “What is this place?” She asks, her eyes straying to the Frostbacks looming over the fortress’s walls. “I’ve never seen anything like this in Ferelden.”

 

“Skyhold,” their jailer – Cassandra, she said her name was – replies. “A blessing handed down in desperate times,” she adds. “You’ve heard what happened to Haven.” When Charlie nods, she goes on. “We lost many wandering through the mountains. Some to the cold, some to starvation, and others to the inability to continue.” Cassandra’s cold eyes meet hers, and Charlie feels a tingle run up the length of her spine. “I hope that you two can help restore some of that lost hope.”

 

A lump forms in her throat, the grim reality of their situation creeping over her shoulder. However, as she opens her mouth to accept responsibility, Devi’s ringing voice cuts in. “Help us, Charlie-Wan, you’re our only hope!” Cassandra stares down at her blankly, her mouth twitching downwards at the sight of Devi’s expectant grin and outstretched hands. “C’mon, _Star Wars_? Nobody?” She looks up at Charlie. “Flash, back me up on this.”

 

“Cassandra, you keep mentioning this other leader,” Charlie changes the subject, nudging Devi gently out of the way. “This ‘Herald of Andraste,’” she frowns. “What exactly happened to them?”

 

Snippets of what had happened at Haven had reached the corner of Ferelden where Charlie and Devi had made their base, the whispers becoming a deafening roar once they had made the journey to the outskirts of the Hinterlands. They had noticed an increasing number of refugees from the Crossroads fleeing to the more rural parts of the already barren backwater. That’s when the freaks had come – the Red Templars, as they soon found out – burning down encampments and slaughtering anyone stupid enough to get in their way. Charlie and Devi had just barely managed to escape them at every turn, relying on Devi’s brute strength and Charlie’s knack for strategizing. They had gathered whatever news they could find from whoever they could find alive. But everything had come in a jumble. Stories about the mysterious savior of Thedas disappearing as suddenly as they had arrived and the imminent threat that was this “Elder One.”

 

“The Herald was a good man,” Cassandra says grimly. “He was gentle, kind, and eager to see the Inquisition do some good in the world.”

 

“Was his name Harold?” Devi asks, peeking out from behind Charlie’s arm.

 

“ _Shut up, Devi._ ” Charlie swats her back and turns to Cassandra. “I’m sorry, continue.”

 

“His name was Cadash. Adrien Cadash,” Cassandra’s eyes look far away, her face softening. “From the moment he emerged from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he only wanted to save those in need. And he sacrificed himself, burying himself under a wreckage of Haven, to ensure the safety of his supporters.” Her voice quivers at the end of her sentence, and it seems to trigger the hardened look to work its way back onto her face. “But what is in the past cannot be undone.” She resumes walking, leading them up a set of stone steps. “The Elder One came to Haven seeking the Anchor, the magic that the Herald used to seal the Breach. We thought that when he perished, the magic died with him.” She frowns pointedly down at them. “Where did you acquire the gauntlet?”

 

“We made it,” Charlie replies simply. When Cassandra presses her, she shrugs. “Devi and I woke up in some cabin in the middle of nowhere, and that’s where we stayed until traveling to the Hinterlands. We never found out whose cabin it was, but it was full of these huge, dusty books. I figured that’s where we could start.”

 

Devi chimes in, beaming proudly. “ _I_ was the one who managed to decipher your written language. That’s how we translated the maps and some of the simpler tomes.”

 

“Occasionally we’d find letters and materials left in front of the hut,” Charlie says. “Always with the same message written: ‘Hope this helps.’”

 

“And the letters would always be stuck to the door with a dagger, which was totally badass.” Devi adds.

 

Charlie nods in agreement, “Yeah. Whoever left them knew what they were doing. We just used the information given to us. Eventually word spread about what the Herald was doing, and we made our way to the Hinterlands. That’s where your people found us.”

 

They are led through a decrepit main hall, past a dusty throne, and down another dank corridor. Pausing outside of another set of heavy doors, Cassandra turns to face them. “Your claims, if they are true, are the only thing standing between this moment and the end of the world. Your choices from this moment on will determine the fate of everyone in the farthest reaches of Thedas.”

 

“We just want to help,” Charlie replies gravely. “Our lives are just as much at stake as anybody else’s.”

 

Cassandra stares her down, her brown eyes assessing her coolly. Finally, she gives a curt nod, pushing the door open. “Well then, shall we begin?”

 

 


	3. To the Rescue!

Her eyes bounce from person to person, her mind scrambling to remember their names. She hasn’t seen so many blank, judgmental faces since her defense hearing, and she feels the same desire to smash something creeping through her guts.

 

_Focus, Devi, focus_. She glances from person to person. _There’s Cassandra, you know her. And then the redhead is, well, she’s gorgeous. And then there’s the Disney princess. And him over there, he’s,_ she squints. _He looks like a Chad. Or maybe a Nathaniel? Chadthaniel? And next to Chadthaniel is Eggboy, and after that Dorian._

 

“Mistress Suri, do you need to sit down?” Devi is jolted out of her thoughts by the Disney princess stepping forward and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps some water?”

 

_Her moles are like stars in the world’s friendliest constellation._ Devi stares at her blankly, her tongue unable to keep up with her racing thoughts. Finally, she manages to get a grip on herself. “Just thinking, s’all.” She turns to glance up at Charlie. “Where were we, Flash? I got a little distracted.”

 

“Fascinating,” Eggboy says, examining the gauntlet closely. “I had assumed that the magic would have been lost with the Herald. But you’ve managed to capture it in a piece of armor.”

 

Devi thinks back to the bunny mittens she left back in her apartment. _Those would’ve been handy in the mountains. But it was May when I left, and I didn’t realize I’d be taking a trip_. “Yup, that’s the second best glove that I own.”

 

“ _We_ own,” Charlie says teasingly, giving her a nudge. “Solas, was the Herald the only known user of that type of magic?”

 

“Solas!” Devi blurts out. _So that’s his name! I could’ve sworn “egg” fit somewhere in there._ When she realizes that all eyes are on her waiting for an explanation, she flushes. “I’m just, uh, excited! To hear from such a knowledgeable man!” She throws up her hands, “Solas!”

 

“Yes, well,” he clears his throat. “In any case, I had never seen anything like this before the Herald.” Solas shakes his head, his tone awestruck. “And you made it. I find it hard to believe that two mere apostates could have accomplished such a feat without any assistance.”

 

As Devi mouths the word, Charlie shakes her head. “Oh no, Devi and I aren’t mages. We don’t even have mages where we come from.”

 

“Hmph,” Chadthaniel scoffs. “And where might I find that paradise?”

 

_Ew._ Devi frowns, “It’s not like we wouldn’t find a use for magic, Chadthaniel. We just don’t have it in our neck of the woods. I mean, there’s movie magic. Or Magic Mountain, or Disney magic, or,” she registers their blank stares and returns the look. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have any of those things.” Frowning, she tries to relate it to something from _wherever_ they are. Tries. “You know how you felt the first time you saw a newspaper being delivered? And instead of being a kid on a bike, it was some dude in his windowless van? And he throws your paper in a puddle on purpose because of the time you dented said van while riding your bike and not looking out for where you were going? That’s how our world feels all the time.”

 

“Okay, I’m going to step in here.” Charlie says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “What Devi is saying is that we don’t have magic or mages where we come from. It just doesn’t exist. Not because of any Templars or executive orders – it’s just not a thing.”

 

“And where is it exactly,” Cassandra’s tone is cautions, “that you do come from?”

 

“New Jersey, mostly,” Devi replies, “but let the record show that I was in the process of moving back from Boston.”

 

“It’s irrelevant, because they don’t know where those places are.” Charlie says.

 

“Yeah, but I’d still like it to be on the record.”  


“What record are you talking about? There is no record. No one is making a record of this conversation.”

 

The Disney princess cuts into their bickering with a flourish of her feathered quill. “Actually, Mistress Cowden, I am keeping a record.”

 

Charlie ignores Devi’s smug look, turning in time to catch the rest of the party looking down at the large map pinned to the table. “You’re not going to find anything on there, although I’m sure you already knew that. We’re not from Thedas.”

 

“Not from Thedas?” Chadthaniel repeats, “That’s impossible. There’s nothing beyond Thedas.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Commander.” For the first time since they had started this debacle, the redhead speaks, her lilting voice sending Devi’s heart aflutter. “You remember what Dorian and the Herald found at Redcliffe.” When he argues something about time travel, she goes on. “I’m not saying that it’s the same. But we can’t rule out anything. Stranger things have already happened.”

 

Charlie gives her a nod, and Devi pipes up. “I wouldn’t say it’s time travel. The first problem with that is the fact that Thedas doesn’t look like any period in our world’s history. At first I thought we were trapped in some hardcore version of medieval times? But then I realized that Ferelden is just a poor backwater,” she gestures to Dorian, “ _especially_ considering the finery of your better-dressed companions. The _second_ issue with that is that we don’t have any sort of Thedas, past or present! So how could we have traveled back in time if Thedas isn’t a thing.” She takes a deep breath. “ _My_ theory is this. Have you ever watched _Fabric of the Cosmos_? Because I have, and let me tell you, it fucks you up. But then you start thinking about multiverse theory, and how our universe is just one of a whole bunch of other universes. Then I usually start spiraling into a string of panic attacks, because when you think about it we’ve done all of this before, and we’re just hurtling towards death on some rock flying through outer space. But popping a Zoloft and taking a nap usually calms me down.”

 

“What Devi is saying,” Charlie says again. “Is that it’s possible that our world is running parallel to yours. That this is something independent from where we came from.”

 

Devi sighs dreamily, resting her head against one of Charlie’s slender arms. “You get me, Flash.”

 

“Regardless of where you came from,” Cassandra is the one to pull the conversation back into focus. Devi suspects that this must be at least 90-percent of her job. “What matters is that you are here, and we need you now more than ever. Adrien is gone,” her voice threatens to crack in that way that makes it clear that the Herald was more to her than just a beacon of hope. “Our world resets in your hands.”

 

Charlie looks down at her, her dark eyes glinting. Grinning back, Devi gives a casual shrug. “Fuck it, I don’t think we’re doing anything else.” She turns to Cassandra. “Now who do I have to talk to about getting some neat armor?”


	4. Meet Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Krem meets an actual, factual angel

She is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Her skin warmer than the sun on his face after leaving Tevinter, her eyes darker that the night sky hanging above his head after another job well done. Krem stares at her plump lips as they curl around his name, her warm voice the sweetest song in his head.

 

“Cremisius Aclassi, is it? It’s nice to meet you.” Her warm hands envelop his, her starry eyes twinkling brightly. “Charlie Cowden.”

 

His mouth is dry, his nose suddenly hyper-aware of the smell of a long morning of training wafting off of him. He clears his throat, hoping that he isn’t squeezing her hand too hard. “Krem,” he says finally.

 

Her response is lost, drowned out by the shrieking laugh of her companion. “Uh, _no_?” She cackles, “She just said her name is Charlie. Not Krem.” She bounces forward, giving him a hearty clap on the arm. “Devi Suri, nice to meet,” she stops abruptly, her eyes straying to doorway of the Herald’s Rest behind him. “Oh my _god_.”

 

Krem glances over his shoulder, nodding as Bull ducks out of the tavern and lumbers over to them. “Chief, I was about to come find you. This is Lady Cowden, the one the scouts found in the Hinterlands. Oh, and this,” he trails off as he sees Charlie’s companion sprinting towards the Chief, her mouth moving quicker than Krem can process.

 

“Holy _fuck,_ ” she says, bouncing around Bull in circles. “Look at this guy, Charlie! Can you flex? Just pop up an arm like this. Look, look,” she curls a bicep, urging Bull to do the same. When he does, she shrieks again in delight. “God _damn_ , this is the meatiest meat-bag I’ve ever seen in my _life_! And I once was down in Atlantic City during the Mr. Universe pageant.”

 

As she chatters away, Krem turns to Charlie, his heart fluttering when she covers her mouth to smother her giggles. He forces a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your companion is very,” he pauses, “excitable. Even by Chargers’ standards.” At her look of confusion, he gestures to himself. “That’s us, we’re the Chargers. The Bull’s Chargers. Um,” he jerks a thumb in Bull’s direction. “That’s the Chief over there, the Iron Bull. And then there’s me, Krem, his lieutenant. We’ve got our other members around here somewhere,” he cranes his neck, searching for them as though he expects to find them outside of their usual corner of the tavern. “I could go find them if you’d like.”

 

“That’s alright, Krem.” She says. Her voice is patient, reassuring even. The idea that she might be attempting to preserve what little shreds of dignity he has left only flusters him more. Charlie gives him another calming smile. “Devi and I are in this for the long haul. We’ll have more than enough time for friendly introductions. Although,” she pauses, nodding her head in the opposite direction. “I think Devi’s doing enough socializing for the both of us.”

 

Krem turns to see her companion hanging off of the Chief’s arm, her legs kicking the air as she screams delightedly. Bull roars with laughter as she swings her legs up and loops them around his forearm. “Charlie, look! I’m a sloth!” She reaches out slowly to tap the side of Bull’s face. “Watch me camouflage myself with algae to make up for the fact that I move slowly enough for algae to grow on me.”

 

“Anyway,” Charlie stifles another laugh, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Devi and I are supposed to go meet with Commander Rutherford about one of the men who helped kill your Herald.” She gives her friend a look that causes the other woman to scramble down from Bull’s grasp and bound back over to her side. “But it was nice to meet you. We’ll make sure to stop by and meet the rest of your crew.”

 

She leaves as suddenly as she arrives, and Krem can’t help but allow his eyes to trail up her long, retreating legs as she goes. He watches as she disappears down the steps to the training field, jumping suddenly when Bull’s heavy hand comes down on his shoulder. “Careful, Krem de la Crème,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to have to pick your eyes up from the floor. It’d be pretty hard to get the dirt out.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief.” He says, his face reddening under Qunari’s probing eye. “I was just giving our new leader a warm welcome, Chief. It’s not every day a fresh start is thrown into the countryside.”

 

Bull thrusts his hips suggestively, “Oh, I’m sure you’re ready to give her a _very_ warm welcome.” He lets out another rumbling laugh at the sound of Krem’s sputtered protests. Clapping him heartily on the back, he jerks his head in the direction of the training dummies behind the tavern. “C’mon, Krem, let’s go fix that block of yours. We have to work on making you marketable.” He grins, “You know, for the dowry.”

 

“You of all people should be happy about her arrival.” He says, attempting to change the subject. “No more sending me stormy looks from across the bar. No more guilt trips for bringing us to Haven.”

 

Bull picks up one of the shields, tossing it over before taking up his own. He hums thoughtfully, setting into a ready stance and motioning for Krem to do the same. “We’ll see,” he says from over the top of his shield. “Hopefully your girl can make good on your promises.”

 

He charges, and Krem is grateful to absorb the blow, his thoughts momentarily deterred from the new woman at the throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already know that writing Krem is going to be the hardest part of this story, but I hope I don't butcher him too much (characterization feedback is ABSOLUTELY appreciated!)


	5. Bad Man Sad Man

No one would have ever described him as a proud man. For Raleigh Samson, pride was a luxury afforded to those fortunate enough to live without sacrifice. Those who were able to decide their own fate. His life, of course, had been shaped by an unyielding hunger for Dwarf dust. Lurking around Lowtown looking for his next fix, a blight on the polished front of the mighty Templar Order, being denied even the slightest shreds of redemption. And now where did he find himself? Serving a new god, all the lyrium he could take, enough power to bring down the Maker himself.

 

Samson stares down at the latest piece of intelligence from his men in the field. _But is power supposed to feel so empty?_

 

He leans over the table, eyes sweeping the map in the low light of a small candle. They thought they had won at Haven. Or rather, thought they had attained the closest thing to victory they were going to get. While his master had failed to acquire the anchor, the Herald was dead; lying in the rubble that once constituted the Ferelden village. He suppresses a shiver, mind straying to Corypheus’s fury at the revelation that two newcomers had taken up the dead Dwarf’s mission.

 

He glances at the scattered intelligence reports sent in by his men. Well, it would be a stretch to call them intelligence reports. The men could find nothing. No record of the Inquisition’s new heroes existed. Outside of the casualty reports of men lost in the field, there was no information that would work in their favor. This came with its own set of problems. Fallen men was one thing – Corypheus could always make new Red Templars, despite Samson’s unspoken protests – but when the news that these two had with them the ability to seal rifts had emerged, it had changed things entirely.

 

Corypheus had thought the anchor’s ability had died with the supposed-Herald. It was the one thing keeping his master’s rage in check. But once the news had come about that not only was his victory a thinly-veiled failure, but his work was now also being undone by _two_ opponents, his wrath had been a frightening scene to witness.

 

Samson sighs deeply, his fingers splayed on the table’s surface. He can’t remember when he last felt quite so old. Quite so run down and ready to give in. It was impossible to blame on a bad turn of luck; his troubles had manifested long before Corypheus had handed him his sweetest taste of corruption. Since that moment he had felt alive, had been convinced of the mission at hand. Had been convinced that he would be able to do right by the men under his wing. _But this,_ he sinks down, his forehead hovering somewhere between Orlais and Tevinter. _This is unprecedented._

 

He knows that he is the one thing standing between his men and the Blight, knows that Corypheus would not hesitate to strike him down and use the men as expendable pieces in his pursuit of godhood. His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms until he’s certain he’s drawn blood.

 

“Samson.”

 

The voice startles him, and he snaps up so quickly that his head spins. Maddox stands on the other side of the table, his hands full of scrolls, his eyes shining with the glassy stare typical of the Tranquil. Maddox repeats his name, and Samson feels the familiar throb that resounded in his chest whenever the boy was near. “Maddox,” he nods, forcing a smile. “The men came with more supplies, I trust you’ve found them?”

 

“I’ve drawn schematics,” Maddox’s voice rings listlessly, the sound like shards of glass in his ears. “To improve your armor.”

 

“Thank you, Maddox,” his voice is tense. “I’ve set it down on your workbench. You’ve been a great help fixing this armor up. The master won’t soon forget it.” His fists curl so tightly he’s sure his fingers will break. “And neither will I.”

 

The Tranquil’s response is a curt bow, Samson’s eyes glued to his retreating figure as he disappears further into the shrine. With a heavy heart and gritted teeth, he turns his attention back down to the map. He would protect Maddox, protect all of his men from Corypheus’s wrath. He is not a proud man, nor is he a good man. Samson knows that he had long been cast away from the Maker’s side, if there was even a Maker to begin with.

 

After all he had done, what were two more pests eliminated?


	6. Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

The last few months had been a whirlwind of activity, more hectic than their last four years in Thedas had ever been. And now, they were to stare down their most challenging task.

 

“Meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

 

Varric’s tone is expectant, and he stands waiting for a reaction. Charlie stares blankly at the man standing at his side. She doesn’t know what to think, other than the fact that he looks as unimpressive as any other conventionally attractive white man she has ever seen in her life. Hawke’s square jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes narrowing as he assesses her coolly. Finally, she speaks, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “I think we should wait for Devi before we get into it.” She says lamely, eyes flicking down in time to catch Varric’s plain disappointment at her lack of interest.

 

As though on cue, they hear her chattering away as she sprints up the stairs. “Sorry I’m tardy to the party, Flash. I was just training with the BFG and your _boyfriend_.” She gives Charlie a rougher-than-intended jostle. “Kremmy boy didn’t know what hit him. Tell him that he shouldn’t leave his left open if he doesn’t want to get laid out.”

 

“Killer, we’ve got a guest.” Varric is smiling, but Charlie can see that his good-natured demeanor is tinged with impatience. “I was just telling Chatterbox over here that this is a friend of mine from Kirkwall. Hawke.”

 

Devi turns slowly, eyes sliding into focus on the glowering man before them. Charlie braces herself, eager to hear her companion’s first impressions. For a moment, the shorter woman only stares at Hawke, the cogs quite obviously turning rapidly in her head. Finally, she turns to Charlie and jerks an unceremonious thumb in Hawke’s direction. “Who’s this tall glass of skim milk?”

 

Charlie muffles a snort, wheezing as Varric – obviously flustered – explains. “This is the Champion of Kirkwall.” When Devi blandly states that she doesn’t know what that is, voicing Charlie’s own apathy to their new arrival, Varric seems to finally snap. “You know, this is actually a pretty big deal around here. Just because you two don’t have a clue what’s going on doesn’t mean that I’m not sticking my neck out bringing him here.”

 

_Oh, someone’s a bit testy this morning_. Charlie feigns an apology, nodding slightly and clamping her hand over Devi’s mouth before she can say something that would only serve to anger the Dwarf further. “Our apologies, Varric. Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, is it?” She gestures, “What’ve you got for us?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Well that was a gigantic fucking waste of time.” Devi rakes her hand through her unruly hair, attempting to gather the wavy tendrils into a messy bun. “Also, am I the only one getting major Edward Norton in _American History X_ vibes from that guy? I’m talking _before_ the friendly black guy changes his mind about racism in the laundry room.”

 

Charlie hums, skimming the pages of one of Varric’s books. _The Tale of the Champion_ , she frowns. “So, this guy is friends with no one in Kirkwall, except for Varric, I guess. He sides with the Templars, kills a bunch of mages, and we’re supposed to feel good about working with him?” She shuts the book and drops it on the table with a thud. “I know we’re not from here, but from what I’ve gathered, the mages need our help more than anyone. That’s why the Herald sided with them, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yup, yup,” Devi’s head bobs as she drums her fingers on the table. “I mean, I’m still not entirely sure _what_ a Templar is exactly? But they sound like dicks.” Her eyes suddenly snap somewhere over Charlie’s shoulder, and the grin that spreads across her face tells Charlie that nothing good is coming her way. “Oh my, Charles, I think I hear someone calling me.”

 

“No one is calling you.”

 

But Devi is already sprinting from the table, leaving Charlie alone to face the music.

 

“Your worship,” the silky voice wraps around her like a blanket, causing her hands to tremble. She hides them in her lap as she turns.

 

“Krem.”

 

Since their first meeting outside of the tavern, Charlie had found it near impossible to be alone with the Chargers’ lieutenant without feeling as though she were about to burst into flames. No one would accuse her of being quick on her feet when it came to the art of conversation. She wasn’t Devi, blurting out the first irreverent thought to come into her head, and she often found herself being too wrapped up in choosing just what to say instead of actually saying it. But with Krem, that process slowed from a languid lull to a full, grinding stop.

 

He sits in Devi’s now-empty chair, his cheeks flushed with wine and some evening exertion. Charlie can’t say that she had completely ignored his training session with the Bull, stopping just short of standing outside gawking before Devi pulled her into the Herald’s Rest. “I heard you met with the Champion of Kirkwall, your worship.” His voice is awestruck, eyes sparkling. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about since this morning.”

 

“Are you,” she feels her heart slamming in her chest, her negative comments about the Champion ringing in her ears. “What do you know about him?”

 

“What everyone knows, really.” Krem rubs the back of his neck, reclining in the wooden chair as he thinks. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories by now, or,” he nods to the book on the table, “you’ve read the bulk of it. The Champion was from Ferelden, lost his younger siblings to the Blight, lost his mother to a blood mage. If you really want to know more about him past that, I guess you could ask Varric or the Commander.”

 

“He and Cullen know each other?”  


“In Kirkwall, I hear they got pretty close. I even saw him scoop Hawke up into a bear hug when he saw him coming down the battlements.”

 

_That explains a lot_ , Charlie thinks bitterly. While she had managed to keep things civil between herself and the Inquisition’s commander – something Josephine chalked up to a knack for diplomacy – Charlie couldn’t say that she agreed with many (or perhaps _any_ ) of his views. She leans forward, emitting a deep sigh as she rubs her temples.

 

“Is everything alright, your worship?” Krem’s breath is hot on her ear, and she opens her eyes to see him leaning forward and examining her concernedly.

 

“Crestwood,” she blurts out, jumping back and knocking her chair to the floor in the process. She flinches at the confused and slightly pained look that crosses his face. Face burning with embarrassment, she smoothes out imaginary wrinkles on the front of her shirt. “Hawke said that he’s got a contact in Crestwood. I was supposed to speak to the advisors about it, you know, for preparations. But I haven’t done that yet.” She nods her head, taking slow backwards steps away from the table. “So I should go talk to them so that Devi and I can meet Hawke’s contact. In Crestwood.”

 

Krem looks puzzled, but he sends her one of those heart-melting smiles nonetheless. “Knock ‘em dead, your worship.”

 

Charlie nods curtly, turning and fleeing the scene before he can hear her giggle with delight.

 


	7. The Bull, the Mage, and the Warrior

“You’re telling me that I’ve been wandering around Planet Sand Hell with Captain Pornstache and the Champion of Dick-wall for about a month, and now you want me to, what?” Devi narrows her eyes, “Go _back_ to aforementioned Sand Hell with the same bozos? Without Charlie? Are you out of your gourd, Chadthaniel?”

 

“The other advisors and I have come to the conclusion that your _particular_ strengths will be better utilized at Adamant.” Cullen replies, his arms folded defensively across his chest. “And, for the sake of being direct, we are concerned that should Adamant prove to be a failure, sending both of you would leave us without leadership.” He arranges the statuettes on the war table’s map. “You will take your party and the gauntlet to Adamant while Inquisitor Cowden,” he slides his finger across the surface, “journeys with her party to Emprise du Lion. There, she will see to it that the Red Templars are denied their lyrium supply.”

 

Devi hates that she agrees with the logic behind it. It was incredibly well-calculated to split them up for such a mission. Exploring Thedas together was one thing, but with what she had seen in the Western Approach, a designated survivor was desperately needed. Rather than calmly explain to Cullen that she understood and was willing to begrudgingly accept his plan, Devi grits her teeth and spins on the ball of her foot, flinging open his chamber door and storming out onto the battlements.

 

She wonders if he had told Charlie the plan first. That was the dynamic around Skyhold, after all. Charlie’s levelheadedness had earned her the primary role as diplomat, able to handle the bureaucratic needs of the Inquisition handed down by Josie while also being able to approach the pragmatism of their military commander. Devi prefers it this way. She longs to be out in the thick of it, helping the poor, unfortunate souls encountered in their travels. _The whispering, however,_ Devi thinks as a few scouts scamper past her with secretive looks on their faces. _I could live without the whispering_.

 

It couldn’t be helped. She was loud, rambunctious, and on the tail end of a manic episode. All that combined with her mischievous personality and the lack of SSRI prescriptions available in Thedas ensured that her moods remained volatile and her attention span abysmal. Unfortunately, this had also caused the more judgmental members of the Inquisition to write her off as a leader, to chalk her behavior up to being simple, or perhaps a bit touched in the head.

 

She drums on her thighs as she takes the steps down the battlements to the Herald’s Rest, the tavern named for their late predecessor. Bull is sitting in his usual spot, a pint in his hand and Krem at his side, and he tousles her hair when she plops down next to him. “Rough day, Killer?” He asks, his fingers cool and wet against her temple.

 

“You would not believe, BFG. Between snapping at Cullen and fielding stories from Solas, I am beat.” She lays her head down on one of his massive thighs, curling her legs up to her chest. “Please tell me you and Krem have some wild training story or need advice about Charlie or something.”

 

With Charlie being wrapped up in more and more administrative work, Devi had found blossoming friendships with a few of the recruits to the Inquisition. When she wasn’t snarking Solas from the balcony with Dorian, napping with Cole in the garden, or improving her written Common with Leliana, Devi found herself curled up here. Tucked away safely in the Chargers’ favorite corner of the tavern. Welcomed with open arms and jovial laughter.

 

Well, most of the time.

 

“I hate to sound rude, you worship,” Krem’s voice is tight, and Devi gives him props for managing to squeeze out the honorific. “But Inquisitor Cowden has put a lot of work into finding Corypheus’s general. With the Commander’s help, of course,” he adds quickly at the sound of Bull’s low, suggestive chuckle. “This is purely strategic; splitting you two up is a way to cover more ground.”

 

Devi rolls onto her stomach, regarding Krem shrewdly as she kicks her legs gently behind her. “Is that right, Kremmy Boy? You’re agreeing with this from a purely pragmatic standpoint? You’re not tackling it as,” she pretends to think, “a love-struck idiot who’s been promised a place at her side?” His cheeks redden, and she snaps her fingers into a finger-gun gesture. “Bingo.”

 

“Inquisitor Cowden is,” his voice is high and indignant. “Inquisitor Cowden needs – she shouldn’t be –”

 

Devi sits up, interrupting his sputtering with a series of her own unintelligible noises. “Don’t you ‘Inquisitor needs’ me, Lover Boy. You’re trying to turn our _Three’s Company_ into a _Lady and the Tramp_ , and I’m not having it!” She rubs her temples as Bull rumbles a response. “And I know you don’t know what I’m talking about, but that isn’t the point!” Feeling the brewing in her brain begin to fizz to an uneasy buzz, she shoots to her feet, storming off before she can make an even bigger scene.

 

_This is bad._ Her thoughts are frantic as she climbs the stairs to her quarters. _This is monumentally bad. This is Jar Jar Binks having a baby with Satan himself levels of bad._

 

She staggers over to the ornate bowl one of the unseen helpers of the Inquisition had left on the dresser and presses her face into the icy water inside. Devi stays like this for as long as she can take, attempting to capture the existential dread felt when sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool from such a shrunken scale. After what feels like hours, she pulls her face from the water, gasping for air as she pushes her sopping hair out of her face. She might have been standing at the end of her own world. It couldn’t hurt to at least get the team ready.

 

 

 

 


	8. Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Emprise du Lion is cold, quiet, and dreary. Krem walks in silence at Charlie’s side, the only noise coming from the snow crunching under their feet. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but Devi wasn’t necessarily wrong when she had accused him of being grateful for some time spent alone with the Inquisitor. Though he had been working at it, their brief introduction upon her arrival had been their most involved interaction. His attempts at getting to know her had been largely interrupted by the travels that took her all over Thedas and the constant presence of her co-Inquisitor. As a result, he had only been able to gleam the surface of her personality.

 

He glances over his shoulder, grimacing when the Chief throws him a thumbs up. He attempts to ignore the disapproving look on the First Enchanter’s face at the gesture. Bull had been kicked out of the Adamant party after Devi had decided that she was bringing Dorian along. Charlie hadn’t seen any harm in him joining their mission to Emprise, viewing his brute strength as something that would only strengthen them against the Red Templars. Little did she know that Bull had tasked himself with a different mission entirely.

 

_“Listen, Krem Brûlée,” Bull says, wrapping a thick arm around his shoulders before he can leave their tent. “This is your time to shine. Killer’s in the middle of the desert, and I can keep Lady Viv out of your hair long enough for you to make a move.” When Krem sputters in protest, Bull gives him a squeeze. “Look around you, Krem. The falling snow. The silence of it all. This is what romance is all about!”_

Krem swallows hard, braving a glance over at their silent leader. What Bull hadn’t taken into account was that Charlie had been silent for most of their journey, noticeable even by her standards. His eyes sweep over her face, heart melting at the barely-visible pink tint creeping under her skin, snowflakes clinging to her long eyelashes.

 

“You must be grateful,” he says finally, fighting through his knotting tongue when she turns to look at him. “You must not get a lot of peace and quiet.”

 

Charlie looks confused, but she answers nonetheless. “I suppose. It’s hard to catch a break during the end of the world.”

 

“I mean without Devi.” He chuckles to himself nervously. “She’s been training with me and the Chief pretty regularly.”

 

“Ah, yes, you and the BFG.” Charlie’s face softens, her mouth curling into a faint smile. “I think that training with you two is the highlight of her day. There’s not much else that could get her up that early in the morning. Even before we came to Skyhold, back when we were focused only on getting home, she’d refuse to get up before the mid afternoon.”

 

“I’ve never understood that.” When Charlie cocks a brow, he gestures. “Her nickname for the Chief, I mean. BFG?” He struggles to think of what he knows of the other Inquisitor. “Bull Frog Games?”

 

Charlie laughs, the sound loosening the building tension in his shoulders. “No, that’s not it. I thought it was from this children’s book she likes, _The Big Friendly Giant._ But she says it just stands for ‘Big Fucking Guy.’ Which is pretty fitting.”

 

“It must be exhausting trying to keep up with her.” Krem says. “I know that I start to lose patience within the first hour. I don’t know how you’ve dealt with it for years.” He smiles, “That’s why it’s nice that Cullen split you two up. I can’t imagine that dealing with the Wardens would be any easier with Devi getting in the way.”

 

She stops walking abruptly, and when she speaks again, her tone is clipped. “What did you just say?” When Krem turns to face her in confusion, he sees that her eyes are burning with an anger he didn’t think her to be capable of. When he tries to explain that she deserves a break from any unnecessary distractions, she shoots him a glare that causes him to crumple inside. “You don’t know anything.” Her eyes narrow, her fists tightening at her sides. “None of you do. You just sit there and pass judgments about things that aren’t any of your fucking business.” Her face is a mask of fury, and Krem gets the sense that this is something that’s been sitting on her mind for a while now. “Do you think it’s easy” she continues, “to get up in a world that doesn’t make any sense? To try and help people who think you’re some bumbling idiot? To try and keep things light when you have no idea if you’re ever going to see your family again because you don’t know where you are and how you got there?”

 

Krem doesn’t think he’s supposed to answer any of these questions, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to reply anyway. “I don’t – I didn’t mean anything by it, your worship. But you must admit that she is a little –”

 

Charlie cuts him off with another icy stare. “I don’t have to admit anything, especially to someone who doesn’t know a damn thing about me or the last bit of family I have left.” Turning, she sets back down the path. “Just keep your mouth shut and focus on looking for Samson.”

 

Krem watches dumbly as Lady Vivienne hustles past him to comfort the seething Inquisitor, pausing only to give him a scornful look as she passes. He feels the Chief’s sympathetic gaze as the older man stands next to him.

 

“Can’t say I was expecting that,” Bull says after Charlie and Vivienne are specks in the snow moving ahead of them.

 

Krem groans, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. It looked like his chances were just another casualty lost to the doom hanging over their heads.


	9. The Widow's Walk

Devi had expected the worst from Adamant. She had expected the monsters, the crazed Wardens, the greasy prick from the Western Approach. But being trapped in the Shadow Realm with the Champion of Dick-wall and his trusty Dwarven pal was an unprecedented horror that she could never have prepared herself for.

 

“Hmph,” Hawke folds his arms tightly across his chest as the remnants of the Herald’s lost memories fade around them. “This is a waste of time. What good are a dead dwarf’s memories to us? We already know that the Wardens are aiding Corypheus. We don’t have time for this.”

 

Varric nods his head in agreement. “I hate to sound insensitive, Killer, but Hawke’s got a point. Don’t get me wrong, Cadash was a good guy. But there’s a giant demon blocking our ticket out of here, and I think that’s more pressing than going over information that we already know.” When she doesn’t respond, he continues in a gentler tone. “I’m not saying it isn’t important, but standing around waiting for demons to get us doesn’t exactly sound like the best plan. Not when we could be moving on.”

 

But Devi ignores them, her attention on Cassandra. The other woman is rigid, her jaw clenched tightly as silent tears drip down her face. Devi had noticed her stern countenance begin to slip when they had been faced by the spirit greeting them as the Divine. But gathering Adrien’s memories had been something else entirely. Devi had heard the way Cassandra’s breath had hitched at the sight of him, seen how she turned away from the group, claiming that she needed a moment. That fighting the wisps had taken more out of her than expected.

 

Devi had long since suspected that there was more to Cassandra’s relationship to the Herald than she let on, and her suspicions had been confirmed by Cassandra’s bashful insistence that she felt nothing but reverence for the fallen man. Persistent teasing had loosened the other woman up to reminisce, her face softening as she told stories of their meeting and their travels. But this moment is different. This is grief.

 

“Cas,” Devi’s voice is quiet as she reaches up hesitantly to brush a tear from the Seeker’s cheek.

 

“Please,” her voice is shaky, but she doesn’t draw away. “Please, I just need a moment.”

 

“We don’t _have_ a moment.” Hawke’s voice is harsh from somewhere behind them. “Ask your _mage_ for healing if you’ve been injured so badly.” He spits the word out bitterly, shooting a dark look in Dorian’s direction.

 

“Will you show some fucking tact, you Hefty bag full of garbage?” Devi detaches herself from Cassandra’s side, storming over and shoving him back roughly. “We’re stuck here whether you like it or not. Leaving in five minutes isn’t going to do us any better than leaving in an hour, okay?”

 

“The Champion is right.” Cassandra’s voice comes from her side, and Devi looks up to see her stoic mask in place, eyes red-rimmed. “We must move on.” When Devi says her name, Cassandra puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, her tone softening. “We must move on.”

 

“Fine,” Devi shakes her head. “Fine, we’ll move on. But let the record show that we aren’t going because this asshole said to.”

 

“Duly noted,” Hawke mutters flatly.

 

They continue in silence, pausing to slay stray monsters and fulfill dreamers’ wishes. Dorian is the first to break the lull, his voice echoing through the Fade. “Tell me, Devi, how do you see this playing out?” It’s one of their favorite games to play, usually on long treks through the Hinterlands or sprawled among the books in the library. “Once we’ve slain the Elder One and return triumphant to Skyhold, what will our brave Inquisitor do then?”

 

For the briefest of moments she wants to cry. This is her favorite thing to do, to sit and spew predictions about the future with Dorian like some kind of rambling Zoltar machine. But in this moment, with Hawke shooting daggers at her with his stare and Cassandra silently mourning a man who she had apparently loved, Devi feels hopeless. “I don’t know.” She states finally, tapping her fingers against her thumb. “There’s nothing for me here. No one who needs me. I’ll probably just,” she shrugs. “Go.”

 

“Well,” Dorian is thrown by her answer. “That isn’t how this game _usually_ turns out.” He rubs his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “I see myself returning to the Imperium. Living a life of luxury, shedding these dreadful Southern fashions for fine jewels and silks.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s it, you can come with me! Imagine, the two of us, taking Tevinter by storm.”

 

Before she can tell him that he doesn’t want her to come to Tevinter, they are faced with a blinding light. Devi flinches, putting up a hand to shield her eyes from the beam. She sees the spirit that had masqueraded as the Divine, but behind it –

 

“Sweet Maker,” Cassandra freezes, her hand coming down to grip Devi’s arm tightly.

 

It doesn’t take Devi long to figure out what’s going on, but she hears the question leave her mouth anyway as her eyes come to focus on the man emerging from behind the spirit’s back, “Is that?”

 

“Cassandra,” his voice is gentle, low and warm like tea with honey on a winter morning. His dark eyes crinkle, a smile like molasses spreading across his face when she takes an unthinking step forward. “If I had known you were coming, I would’ve worn something nicer.”

 

He is bathed in a subtle glow, an otherworldly shimmer akin to the spirit at his side. Devi notices that one of his sleeves is empty, pinned up to his shoulder. _That must be where the anchor was. Did they cut the arm off before they cremated him?_

 

“You,” Cassandra’s voice is a wisp of its usual strength. “You can’t be. A spirit, like the Divine.” She is obviously confused, and Devi hears the tremble in her voice. “But why? Why this shape? Have you been sent by the Nightmare to pain me?”

 

But the spirit steps forward, eyes sparkling as he reaches out to brush the inside of her palm with his fingertips. “I believe I’ve hurt you enough for one lifetime,” he says sadly, a small smile still clinging to his lips.

 

“This is _unbelievable_!” Dorian breathes. “The Divine is one thing, but Adrien, you’re a Dwarf. Shouldn’t you be – I don’t know – speaking through a rock if at all?”

 

Adrien chuckles, visibly amused. Devi feels a sense of warmth radiating off of him, almost like sitting in the sunlight. _So this is the Herald of Andraste._ She remembers how everyone who stopped to share a story of the Herald always did so with fondness, and she immediately understands why.

 

“Believe me, Dorian, I thought I’d return to the Stone and bask in the reverence of my Ancestors.” He shrugs, “But somehow I ended up here. And with the way my life had been going up until that point, I decided not to question it.”

 

“So,” Devi frowns, reaching out to prod his shoulder absently. It feels solid and intangible all the same. Almost as though she’s sticking her hand into a Jell-O-coated brick wall. “Are you alive? Because I’m not saying that being Inquisitor screams ‘job security,’ but I didn’t think that you’d be coming back any time soon.”

 

As soon as it leaves her mouth, she worries that she’s being insensitive. But to her relief, Adrien laughs. It’s a large, barreling sound that seems to shake the Fade around them. “I assure you that I’m about as dead that one can get.” He looks at her warmly. “So you’ve been tasked with finishing the job, hm? I can’t say that I envy you.” He holds his hand out, in it another orb similar to the ones that had fallen from the wisps. “You’ve been going around collecting my memories. They’re the only things keeping me here. Or that’s my theory, at least.” Adrien sets the orb gently in her hands, his own coming to rest on her shoulder. “I know better than anyone that this isn’t easy. The hours are terrible, the work grueling, and the people,” he pauses, casting an affectionate look in Cassandra’s direction. “Well, actually, I found the people to be rather delightful.”

 

When she chides him, he laughs, the sound causing a throbbing pain to shoot through Devi’s chest. The glow around him seems to flicker, his already-echoing voice growing fainter. “I don’t have much time left,” he says. “So I’ll keep it brief. Everything you do – no matter how innocuous it might seem – determines just how this whole thing is going to play out. Your choices will determine the lives of countless, and your presence alone will inspire either comfort or fear.” He pats her cheek. “It’s up to you to decide which one.”

 

He turns, his image flickering faster now, as though he is fading away before their very eyes. “Cassandra,” he says again. “My beautiful, deadly, force of nature. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. That _we_ couldn’t do more.” He cups her face, thumb tracing the scar along her cheek. “I wish I’d have lived long enough for you to kick my ass one more time.”

 

Devi looks away as another sob escapes Cassandra’s throat as she leans down, the sound swallowed as he kisses her. Adrien steps back, stroking her cheek one last time before throwing Devi a wink. “Looks like that’s it for me. Congrats on your promotion.”

 

“W-wait! I don’t know what to do!” She feels the tears spilling from her own eyes, the sphere of energy bursting in her hands as another set of memories that don’t belong to her whip around her head. “What if we can’t do it? What if I fail?” For the first time since accepting the role, Devi feels petrified. She is afraid of failure. Of destroying a world she doesn’t belong to. Of letting down Charlie and all the members of the Inquisition she had met along the way.

 

Adrien is almost gone now, swallowed up by the light he had arrived in. “Just wing it. I know that’s what I did.”

 

And with that he vanishes, leaving only questions and tears in his wake.


	10. Meet Cute, Redux

It almost kills him to leave Maddox behind.

 

Samson tells himself that it’s for the best. He’s accustomed to lying to himself; he’s done it all his life, after all. But this feels different. Feels _wrong_ somehow. He chalks it up to residual guilt. Maddox had been the unwitting target of all of his misdeeds. This moment was no different. He hadn’t expected it to turn out like this. Intelligence had told him that the Inquisitor was in the Approach, their attention on Adamant and the Wardens. That was why his Master had sent the dragon, wasn’t it? But no, another Inquisition party had been spotted on the outskirts of the Shrine of Dumat. Samson and the few of his men he took with him had barely gotten away before they stormed the fortress.

 

_Could Corypheus have been fed misinformation? It would be impossible for them to travel so far so quickly._

 

As he ponders this, he begins to see shapes moving somewhere along the horizon. Heading quickly in his direction. “Look alive, boys,” he says gruffly, signaling their stop with a raised hand. “We’ve got company.”

 

He assumes it’s bandits. There are tons of them out here in the desert. The men could make easy work of a few nuisances before moving on. His archer lines up the shot, swift and deadly, only to have it deflected by the flash of a shield.

 

“Oh no,” a booming voice emits from the Dwarf leading the trio. “Oh no, not this shit. You are _not_ doing this right here on this day.”

 

They are close enough for Samson to make out the emblem on the knight’s armor. _Seekers of Truth, the Inquisition has a Seeker among them, doesn’t it. But how,_ he squints. _Did they circle back to catch us in front? But what of Maddox?_

 

“It appears we’ve been graced by the Inquisitor herself, boys.” He says, drawing his own sword and shield. “Why don’t we give our guests a warm welcome, hm?” He spits, feeling the anger bubbling up to his surface and sizzling under the desert sun. “You do have some nerve, Inquisitor. Running through my men as you’ve done. But believe me, it won’t be my blood spilled –”

 

“Of all the fucking days to do this.” But it appears as though the inquisitor isn’t even listening to him, and she rambles angrily to either herself or her companions as though he isn’t there at all. “I’m not doing this right now, guy. So you can take your ass and your ground-beef-looking friends and go somewhere else, okay?”

 

Samson is confused, the confusion only serving to anger him more. He had expected to be faced with an involved opponent. How could he not, given all of the Inquisition’s efforts to hunt him? And now this chattering Carta smuggler was treating him so flippantly? He grits his teeth, grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. “You think so little of me, do you? So eager to hunt me down, and this is your –”

 

He is caught off guard as she charges him, pulling the maul so fluidly from her back that he would’ve sworn it was made of parchment. “I just told you,” she growls, her swing connecting with his chest and knocking him onto his back. “I am _not in the mood_!” Lying dazedly on the ground, he hears another arrow sail above his head, where it’s followed by another dull thud and another hurled swear.

 

Samson clambers to his feet, turning his head in time to see her maul come down in the center of the archer’s chest. Her companions had made surprisingly quick work of the others, and before he can blink, he is the last one standing. He thanks the Maker that Maddox rigged his armor the way he did, or that last blow might’ve killed him. Staring down his assailant, he smirks. “What’s the matter, love? Winded already?”

 

She glares at him before having the audacity to lower her weapon. “Your people are dead.” She doesn’t sound particularly enthused about this. “Just turn around and get out of here.”

 

He grits his teeth, his temple throbbing. _Who does she take me for? Have I fallen so low that finishing me isn’t worth the effort?_ “Not a chance,” he barks, charging at her with his shield at the ready. He manages to hit her before she has a chance to raise her maul, his shield hitting her chest and causing her to stagger back. Samson swings again, knocking back the Seeker when she attempts to flank him, the wood cracking unpleasantly against her skull when he does so.

 

“You fucking _dick!_ ” The Inquisitor manages to raise her maul in time to block his blade, her face twisting with rage and exertion. “Why don’t you just,” she speaks through gritted teeth as she pushes back against him, “give _up!_ ” With a hearty push she sends him flying again, charging him as she calls to the mage behind her. “Focus on healing, Dorian. I’ll take this asshole out myself.”

 

“Those are big words for someone so willing to give up moments ago.” He says.

 

He expects a witty retort, or perhaps a line about finishing him off for the good of the people. Anything that would build this fiery little Dwarf up to the fearful Inquisitor he had been gathering reports on. Instead, she gives him a look as though he’s quite soft in the head. “I was giving you an _out_ , you idiot!” Maul at the ready, she charges again, swinging so far left he’s sure she’ll miss.

 

He flinches as the metal collides with his hand, causing the shield to fly out of his hand. The Inquisitor swings again, her aim at his knees. He jumps back, attempting to avoid it but instead achieving the intent of the blow. The sand flies up as he falls heavily to the ground, his eyes watering as he stares up at the shadowy figure with a mallet raised high above her head.

 

_I could get up,_ he thinks. _I still have my sword, I can take as many blows as it takes to wear at least one of us down. Deliver her head on a silver platter to Corypheus._ His thoughts are wild, and his grip tightens around the blade once more. _Corypheus._

 

The thought hits him worse than any blow taken in battle. Corypheus had made promises, assured Samson that his men would be taken care of first. _But look at your men now. Lying dead and in pieces, dying as monsters for what? So you can have access to all the Dwarf dust you could ever need?_ His hand loosens around the hilt. _It’s either be killed by the Inquisition, or be killed by the Master when he runs out of use for you. Might as well go out with some glory._

 

Samson shuts his eyes, waiting for the maul to come down and send his brain splattering across the sand. Instead, he feels it strike down heavily on his chest, shattering the glowing crystal embedded in his breastplate. For a moment he thinks he’s dying, a red hot pain searing through his entire body and causing his eyes to roll back into his head.

 

For the briefest of seconds he can hear the Chant of Light, can see himself as a young Templar recruit walking proudly in a set of shining armor.

 

He cracks a smile and fades to black.


	11. Reunited, and It Feels So Good

Suledin Keep had been exhausting, the trek to the Shrine of Dumat even worse. Word had come out of Adamant claiming that Devi had entered the Fade, something Charlie didn’t even think was possible. Because they were on the move, she had yet to be updated on the situation, and the not knowing was making her sick to her stomach. She had gone along with the designated survivor plan because it made sense strategically, although Cullen had still had to coax her into admitting it. But she had never thought for one minute that Devi would actually go off and die on her.

 

“Still nothing, Cullen?” She asks, her eyes flicking up and scanning the darkening sky for any sign of one of Leliana’s feathered carriers.

 

Krem clears his throat, one of the first times he’s spoken since their spat in Emprise. “I’m sure the Inquisitor is fine, your worship. She’s,” he hesitates when Charlie turns to look at him coolly. “She’s a fighter.”

 

Before she can say anything or choose to continue to ignore him, she hears it. Devi’s shrieking voice like the sweetest song drifting through the air. The party’s eyes are drawn to a distant firelight somewhere ahead, and Cullen exhales deeply. “That must be an Inquisition camp,” he says, mouth twisting into something caught between a smile and a grimace. “I can’t say I ever expected to be relieved by _that_ sound.”

 

But Charlie isn’t listening to his backhanded niceties, her focus only on the pounding of her heart in her own ears. She runs towards the camp, dusting off years of cross country training as her tired legs carry her across the sandy expanse. Dorian and Cassandra sit at the fire, clambering to their feet when they see her.

 

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra frowns, her eyes flicking over Charlie’s shoulder as the rest of her party attempts to catch up. “You were in Emprise du Lion. We did not expect –”

 

“Where’s Devi?” Charlie cuts her off, her heart racing wildly in her chest. In the four years they had been in Thedas, they had never been separated. Especially not for the two months it had taken to complete the siege at Adamant.

 

“I swear, on all that is good and holy, I will salt the _fuck_ out of you if you don’t watch it.” Devi pushes her way through a tent flap, still rambling angrily. “Ungrateful piece of garbage. After all that I do, un-fucking-believable.” She glances up, her eyes meeting Charlie’s from across the fire. “Flash,” she says.

 

“Gremlin,” Charlie replies.

 

It’s almost like a scene out of a romance, and Charlie can practically hear the swell of violins as they run towards each other. Charlie is so happy to see the other woman alive that she only wheezes a little bit when Devi barrels into her headfirst, the top of her skull colliding with the base of Charlie’s sternum.

 

“Boy, am I glad to see you, Flash.” Devi says, her words muffled in the thick leather of Charlie’s armor. “You would not _believe_ the shit luck I’ve been having.” When Charlie pulls her back, she can see the fresh bruises on her face, a few deep cuts opened where scars had previously healed. “First we met Adrien – aka the Herald himself – in the Fade. And he and Cas made out for a little bit.” When this earns her a bashful interjection from Cassandra, she frowns. “What? You did, and it was very sad and tasteful. Anyway, then we had to fight this Jeffree Star looking asshole to get out, and Hawke ended up volunteering to stay and fight the good fight so we could get back to Adamant.” She frowns, “Well, he and Stroud both volunteered. But there was no way I was going to bring Captain Dickwad back with me, so I told him to go for it. Of course that went over about as well as you can imagine, with Varric being there and all.” She rolls her eyes and huffs angrily. “I mean seriously. I get that they’re friends, but Hawke was a jackass.”

 

Charlie frowns, her eyes darting to look at the tent Devi had just come out of. “Wait, if you weren’t yelling at Varric, then what was going on in there?”

 

“Oh!” Devi shakes herself from Charlie’s grip, grabbing her wrist and pulling her towards the tent. “That’s the craziest part. So you know how Thedas is essentially that island with all the crazy animals in that one _Spy Kids_ movie? The one where Steve Buscemi was making hybrid animals?” She holds up the tent flap so that Charlie can enter before following her inside. “Well, I think I found this slug-human hybrid wandering the desert. There’s no way that this dude isn’t part skink, Charles; you gotta take a look at this guy.”

 

But Charlie is focused on the broken breastplate sitting at the entrance of the tent. It fills her with the same sense of dread she had felt when navigating the red lyrium deposits in Emprise du Lion, and her eyes creep slowly up to the man sitting slouched and bound on a bedroll.

 

“Devi, do you realize who this is?” She asks slowly, her breath hitching in her throat.

 

“Hopefully the Thedosian equivalent of Mothman,” she says chirpily.

 

But Charlie is already halfway out of the tent, her eyes searching the heads among the fire for the Commander. “Cullen!” She strides over to him, gripping his shoulder tightly and pulling him to his feet. “Cullen, you’ve got to see this.” Before he can ask her any questions, she pushes him through the tent’s entrance. “See for yourself.”

 

The captive lifts his head, a sneer spreading across his bleeding mouth. “Well look who it is,” he rasps. “If it isn’t Knight Captain Rutherford. The honor is all mine, of course.” He chuckles darkly, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he spits at Cullen’s feet.

 

“You know this guy, Chadthaniel?” Devi asks, jerking a thumb in Samson’s direction. “Is he a cryptid?”

 

But Cullen isn’t listening to her, or isn’t making the effort to answer, at least. Instead he turns to Charlie, his amber eyes burning. “Ready the party, Inquisitor. We leave for Skyhold tonight.”  


	12. What are Friends For?

Krem takes his time making his way to the war room. He can’t say that he’s exactly thrilled with the situation the Chief has put him in. The Ben-Hassrath had been a lurking shadow in the background of Charger life for as long as he could remember. Bull had a foot in both camps, but they always seemed to run parallel to each other. But this is different. This is the first time he can remember the two facets of the Chief’s alliances converging.

_And now he’s getting the Inquisition involved_ , he thinks as he opens the door to Lady Montilyet’s office. The ambassador isn’t in, and Krem can only assume that she’s still locked inside of the chambers with Charlie and the rest of the advisors.

 

After they had realized that Devi had managed to unwittingly take down Corypheus’s right hand, things had gone by in a whirl of activity. Charlie had even let Cullen to briefly take the reins, allowing him to lead them on a quick course back to Skyhold. Samson had been thrown into the dungeons, and the Inquisitors and their advisors had holed themselves up inside of the war chamber for deliberation.

 

Krem still isn’t completely sure if this is a blessing or a curse. He chews on his thumb anxiously as he stands before the door to the war room. He had tried to give Charlie some space after their spat in Emprise. Well, it wasn’t so much that he had wanted to give her space. More accurately put, he could feel the murderous rage wafting off of her whenever he dared to stand close enough for her to register his presence. He leans against the crumbling brick, listening to the muffled sounds of arguing in the other room. He can only imagine what she’s told Devi. And he can only imagine how Devi is going to take it out on him during their next training session.

 

The door opens, jarring Krem from his thoughts. Charlie is the first to leave the room, and the cold look she gives him as she passes cuts worse than the blade of any corrupted Templar. The advisors are next to follow, leaving only –

 

“Krem-a-lem-a-ding-dong!” Devi skips up to him, a fresh purple bruise on the right half of her face. She plants herself in front of him. “What’s the haps?”

 

Krem wrings his hands in front of him, a lump forming in his throat. _So this is how she wants to play it._ He hadn’t pegged Devi for a sadist, her pranks usually childish and lighthearted in nature. But drawing this out? This was worse than he thought her capable of. “Your worship,” he says slowly. “I’m sure by now that you and Inquisitor Cowden have,” he pauses. “I’m sure Inquisitor Cowden has told you,” he stares down into her expectant face, her eyes wide and bright as ever. Krem hunches over, his hands pressed against his knees. “Maker’s breath, Devi, let’s just get this over with.”

 

Her face pops into his line of vision as she crouches down in front of him. “You okay, Kremmy boy? You’re not looking so hot.” She giggles to herself, “Well, maybe not looking not-hot. But you do look like you’re about to redecorate the stone, if you pick up what I’m putting down.”

 

“If you’re going to get your payback, just do it now.” He says, taking a deep breath as he straightens himself. “Inquisitor Cowden must’ve told you what happened in Emprise du Lion, and if she was that angry I can’t imagine what you’re planning.”

 

Krem can see the wheels turning in her head, her eyebrows shooting up when things finally click. “Wait, are you talking about Charlie handing your ass to you? Something about you calling me abrasive or something, and she got about as hot as a steamed carrot?” When he nods slowly, she lets out one of her shrieking laughs, one tiny hand shooting out to punch him heartily in the arm. When he grunts, she draws her hand back. “Sorry about that, Krem, forget my own strength. But about the whole planet Hoth encounter,” she frowns slightly, thick eyebrows knitting together. “That’s your beef with Charlie. I’m not getting involved.”

 

“Wh,” he frowns back. “What do you mean you aren’t getting involved? You are the argument.” He stares at her, feeling almost accusatory. _If you aren’t the problem, then why is she still so angry?_

 

Devi folds her arms. “If you think that I’m the reason why Charles hasn’t spoken to you, then you’re wrong.” She shrugs, “Yeah, what you said was a pretty shitty thing to say about a friend, but we’re in a stressful climate, so I’ll let it go. But Charlie? That’s one tall drink of lemonade that can hold a grudge, let me tell you.” She shakes her head. “When we were mucking around Ferelden, we stopped off in some teeny tiny village, and the shopkeeper muttered something about us not being able to afford his wares, and she bought the entire store out. Out of spite, Kremit. I felt like I was watching _Pretty Woman_ , but instead of Julia Roberts banging Richard Gere, Charlie just skipped straight to owning the shopkeepers.”

 

“Devi,” Krem is still attempting to wrap his head around the fact that she is not the source of his problems, and her ramble is not helping. “Devi, do you think we’re friends?”

 

She gives him a look as though she thinks he’s quite stupid. “Uh, yeah? Why else would we train together every morning? Why would I be busting my ass playing matchmaker for you and my only family in this place?” Devi clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “For shame, Krem-berry juice. I can’t be the only one putting any effort in to this relationship. I love you and all, but if you don’t start pulling your weight, I’m going to have to find a new best friend.” She gives him a pat on the cheek. “Listen, BFG told me about your little excursion to the Storm Coast. Says that he wants me to come with, something about my natural talent for smashing things.” She pauses to flex and plant a kiss on her own bicep. “But here’s the thing, if I go to the Storm Coast, how are you supposed to make up with Charlie? So I come up with some excuse, something about needing to pick up some more diplomatic roles around Skyhold. And the BFG? He _buys_ it. Like, hello, dum-dum, who the hell wants to stay here doing paperwork all day? Especially when Dagna did this cool thing with my maul where –”

 

Krem snaps his fingers in front of her glazing-over eyes. “Focus, your worship, please.”

 

“Right-o, my bad.” She takes a few deep breaths with her eyes shut before continuing. “Anyway, I took it upon myself to bring up BFG’s little mission during our death match just now, and I convinced Charlie to go with you guys. On the condition, of course, that I don’t tell you that she’s nervous about just how to approach you after that little quarrel y’all had.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully. “I’m also not supposed to tell you that you’ve got this dimple when you smile, and that she had a dream about sipping wine out of it. Or that she likes the way your ass looks in your breeches. Either way, you are not supposed to know that she’s close to breaking, as long as you take some initiative.” Stretching out her arms, she shrugs. “But what can I say, I’m no Leliana. Secrets just aren’t my thing.”

 

Krem is so happy that he could kiss her. So he does, placing a wet smacking kiss in the center of her forehead. “Thank you, your worship!” He says breathlessly before setting off down the corridor. “I won’t forget this!”

 

“Anything for a friend!” She chirps at his back. “But stop calling me that! Leave the stuffy titles for the Inquisitor who deserves them!”

 

He gives one last wave before heading through the next set of doors. Now it was time to fix what had _actually_ been broken.


	13. Captive and Canary

“Did you ever pause to think that I don’t _want_ to sit here and judge people?” She asks, her leg thrown casually over one ornately-carved arm of the throne. Devi shrinks when Cullen throws her a dark look. Despite the fact that she is pretty sure that she could take him in a fight, there is no denying that the Commander was tall, muscular, and hated her _just_ enough that he would try his damndest to land a few good blows.

 

Instead of striking her, Cullen clenches and unclenches his jaw. “As I’ve stated, Suri,” he says slowly. “Inquisitor Cowden is typically the one to judge Skyhold’s prisoners. But Samson is a threat that must be dealt with. This cannot wait until she returns. That,” he sighs as though he’s in a great deal of pain, “that leaves it up to you.” His tone softens into something that transcends condescension. “I don’t mind stepping in to help, of course. If you’d like,” he licks his lips nervously. “I don’t mind handling the ordeal entirely. I know you were not as _invested_ in Samson’s capture as Inquisitor Cowden, and as you advisor I don’t mind taking a more involved role should you desire it.”

 

_Paternalistic_ , she thinks suddenly. _That’s what it is. He’s treating me like a child._ Devi squints up at him. Cullen can’t be more than ten years her senior, if that, and the thought of being treated like a child is more irritating than she cares to admit. “Could I give you some constructive criticism?” She asks. “You know, to make you a better advisor?”  When he nods, she frowns. “That plan fucking sucks.”

 

Cullen’s cheeks redden, and he begins to sputter indignantly. Devi turns away from him, calling the attention of one of the nearby guards. “Could you be a dear and bring up our slimy, sluggy friend?”

 

The guard leaves with a slight bow and a “right away, Inquisitor,” a phrase that Devi is unaccustomed hearing directed at her.

 

The commander has managed to quell his muttering, but the pink tinge of anger still stains his cheeks as he lowers himself to meet her eyes. “You’ve been clear from the start that you aren’t taking this seriously, but our very lives are at stake. You weren’t at Haven, and you certainly weren’t at Kirkwall.” His voice is a barely-contained snarl, breath hot on her face as he leans in. “I will not see you ruin the one chance we have at survival, at victory. And I will see to it when Inquisitor Cowden returns that you are kept on a very short leash.”

 

Devi glares back, sitting up until they are nose-to-nose. “Your breath smells like cheese and onions,” she hisses, cackling when he tears himself away. Resuming her reclined position, she claps her hands as the guard returns with a partner, the captured Templar held tightly in between them.

 

The guards throw him roughly at the foot of the throne, and he is slow to rise to his knees. When he settles back onto his haunches, his eyes snap up from the floor and hit Devi with the force of one of Cullen’s precious trebuchets. There is fire in his eyes – weary and weakened by beatings if the cuts and bruises on his face were any indication – but fire nonetheless.

 

“Hi there,” she says brightly.

 

His feral eyes narrow, thin cracked lips curling into a snarl before he spits. The loogie lands at the foot of the throne with an unceremonious _splat_ , and Devi scrunches up her nose. “That’s fuckin’ gross, dude.”

 

“Raleigh Samson,” Cullen says, pacing back and forth slowly in front of the throne. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself since Kirkwall, haven’t you?” He stands above the prisoner, obnoxious plume obscuring Devi’s view of what’s going on. “Aiding apostates for lyrium is one thing, Samson, but aiding a Blight?”

 

The vein in her temple throbs, and she pushes herself out of the throne. Careful to avoid her prisoner’s soggy surprise, she sidesteps around Cullen and reasserts herself as ring leader. “Alright, Macklemore, that’s enough out of you.” Giving him a harder-than-necessary shove, she crouches down to meet Samson’s eye-line. “Listen, I’m not entirely sure what you _are_ exactly? Some kind of slug man or swamp thing or,” she squints, “rat mermaid. But that’s not important,” she waves her hand. “You’re a person, and you’ve got rights just like anyone else. You know, because of the Geneva Convention.” She presses her forefinger against a purple splotch on his cheek, earning herself another red-rimmed look of reproach. “Although, it looks like _someone_ ,” she shoots a glare in Cullen’s direction, “might’ve overlooked this.”

 

Samson jerks his head away from her touch, and for a moment he looks as though he’s debating whether he wants to spit again or not. “Keep talking, Inquisitor,” he growls. “You’ll get no information out of me.” He chuckles darkly, the embers behind his eyes sparking. “If you think my capture changes anything, you’re a bigger fool than my master thinks.”

 

“Oh, you’re a real fucking charmer, aren’t you?” She narrows her eyes, “Listen up, ugly, because this is how it’s gonna go down. You’re not a dummy. I saw those moves out there on Planet Sand Hell. You knew what you were doing, planning out moves five steps ahead.” She sees his jaw set, face losing its fight and setting into something impassive. “See, the problem here – this problem that you find yourself in now – is that I’m thinking ten steps ahead. What can I say, I was a chess club kid. So this is what’s going to happen.”

 

She motions to one of the guards, snatching the dagger from the holster on his hip. Holding it in front of Samson’s face, she sees the briefest look of fear crossing somewhere behind the stone. “You’re no longer a prisoner,” she says, freeing his hands with a single pull of the knife, relishing in the thought of how cool she must look to the outside eye. As he rubs his wrists, staring at her in bemusement, she shoots up to her feet. Devi strikes a pose worthy of any _shōnen_ protagonist, pointing in Samson’s face and grinning wildly. “From this point on? You’re one of us. Well, no, I feel like there should be some sort of probationary period.” She turns her point to Cullen, “You! You’re going to be his – I don’t want to say keeper, because I’m pretty sure you’ve been beating the shit out of him when no one’s looking. No, you’re gonna report to me. More than you already do, I mean. And you,” she turns back to Samson. “You’re going to report to him. Follow him around, do his bidding, be his shadow. Think of it as,” she pauses, “Super Weenie Hut Inquisition.”

 

“I am no one’s errand boy.” He snarls, fists curled tightly in his lap, eyes on the knife still poised in her hand, “Let alone his.”

 

“We’ve _got_ people to run errands. _I_ run errands,” she clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “No, we could use you. You fight like a dog, like a dog that got bitten by a radioactive slug-bear-thing. And we’re going to use that.”

 

Ignoring the sounds of protest coming from the two men before her, she motions to the guards. “Find our new friend a place to sleep and get him cleaned up. We’ve got work to do.” 


	14. You Are Here

Never has she ever been more regretful that there is no cell reception in Thedas.

 

Charlie picks at an imaginary loose thread in her shirt, her stare planted firmly on her boots and the shadows dancing around the campfire at her feet. She listens for signs of life in the tents surrounding the campground. Gatt and Bull had long since retreated for the night, the rest of the Chargers following suit as the night wore on. Soon enough, the noise from the tents had died down, leaving Charlie alone with her thoughts.  

 

_Well_ , she braves a glance at the equally-flustered man sitting across the fire, _most of the Chargers had followed that lead._

 

Krem had been the only member of the mercenary group to put off the good night’s rest advised by Bull and his Qunari companion. As though traveling under a sheet of persistent rain and stilted conversation hadn’t been enough discomfort, Krem had decided to squeeze in at least another hour of thick, heavy silence.

 

And so here Charlie sat, her eyes on her feet, wishing more than anything that she could’ve sent Devi a text asking for advice. _Because there’s no way that this isn’t Devi’s doing_ , she reasons. _She was supposed to be leading this thing anyway. But Krem apologizes to her and suddenly, what? She’s ready to learn how to file mission reports?_

 

Things with Krem had been frosty since the Emprise, Charlie’s cold shoulder front thawing in intensity but persisting out of an inability to breach the subject with the Bull’s lieutenant for fear of any residual awkwardness. _Right, like this isn’t awkward enough as is._ She thinks grimly, ducking her head when she catches him looking over once again.

 

“You,” Charlie is rattled to the bone when Krem speaks, his voice cracking as though he too hadn’t expected to hear himself speak. “You should get some rest, your worship. It’s been a long day.”

 

_Don’t you play Prince Charming when I’m trying to be angry with you_ , she thinks unconvincingly. “I could say the same to you, Ser Aclassi.” Charlie lowers her voice, dipping into her more booming tones reserved for meetings with unfriendly diplomats. Though, she admits to feeling a twinge of regret when he flinches at the sound. “A-anyway,” she stammers on in her normal speaking voice, “you lose focus when you don’t rest properly. And you already have that problem with keeping your left side open.” She folds her arms, knowing that the gesture makes her appear all the more like a flustered child, as opposed to his superior. “I wouldn’t want to see you get clipped by some Vint because you’re too tired to keep your head in the game.”

 

Neither she nor Krem misses the misalignment with her flippant attitude and sincere words, and she sees his boyish smile tip the corner of his mouth like a glass of fine wine. When she demands to know just what’s so funny, he laughs. The sound sends a wave of fire rushing across her cheeks, one she knows she cannot blame on the fire.

 

“It’s nothing, your worship,” he says, laughter still gently shaking his voice. “I just notice that you’ve picked up some of the Chief’s preferred terminology.” When she still looks confused, he gestures, “Vints?”

 

_Oh god, he’s right._ Charlie shakes her head, feeling a begrudging smile tugging at the corners of her own mouth. “I didn’t even notice,” she says slowly. “You get so used to hearing things like that, it just kind of falls out of you. Makes you feel like you actually belong here,” the last bit rings sadly in her ears, and for a minute she’s taken aback by how easily the words come out.

 

_It’s true though, isn’t it? No matter what I do for these people, no matter how many people I save, this isn’t where I’m from. This isn’t where I belong._ Charlie stares into the fire, hoping that the heat from the flames is enough to turn her impending tears into vapor. This thought is nothing new, though this would be the first time it had reared its ugly head before she settled down to a fitful sleep. There was no escaping it, however, not when the evidence was piled up all around her. A part of her – a part of her she hid carefully from Devi and everyone else – was largely skeptical that any of this was real to begin with. She often mused that her companions in Thedas – including Devi herself – were all figments of her imagination. Thinking that their adventures were the product of a life spent in loneliness coupled with an overactive imagination, the faces of her friends cobbled together with the use of strangers passed during her day-to-day life.

 

“You do belong here.”

 

Krem’s voice is soft, soft enough that Charlie can barely hear it over the roaring of her own racing thoughts. Her eyes snap up to meet his, and for a moment everything stills around them. It is in this stillness that she is finally able to articulate to herself just why she has been so hell-bent on ignoring him, despite Devi’s repeated calls for forgiveness and the mildness of their original argument. It is sitting there, basking in the warmth of the fire and his steady acceptance, that Charlie realizes that she holds the potential to love this man. To love him unwaveringly until her dying breath. To follow him down into the depths of her own insanity for a taste of happiness. To pledge herself to him wholly and completely whether he is real or not.

 

She is frozen. In wide-eyed shock she watches as he rises hesitantly to his feet, taking a moment to consider his actions before crossing the space between them and settling down at her side. Krem’s tawny eyes flicker in the firelight, the sight causing adoration to pool like the sweetest nectar in her chest. “Sometimes where you belong isn’t where you came from, your worship.” He looks at her thoughtfully. “I was a scrawny Vint fleeing slavery or certain death when I met the Chief. Tevinter’s where I came from, sure, but,” he gestures broadly, and his hand comes down gently on top of hers. “I belong here. Just like you, just like Devi, just like the Chief and everyone else we’ve gathered along the way.”

 

His hand lifts in one fluid motion, thumb brushing ever-so-slightly across her cheekbone before he removes his hands all together. Krem stands, bathed in a glow that can only be described as heroic, “Now, we should get some rest, shouldn’t we?” He helps her to her feet, giving her another dimpled grin that almost knocks her back completely. “Your people need you in tip-top shape after all.”

 

Charlie clutches his hand for dear life as he escorts her to her tent, the fear that she might slip away forgotten with the cold shoulder left behind by the fire.

 


	15. Gossip Folks

There were few benefits to making peace with the Inquisition. His keeper, Knight-Captain _Jackass_ had seen to it that Samson’s days were spent sweeping out stables, shining old soldier equipment, and – perhaps worst of all – sweltering in the heat of the necessary padding required of the Inquisition’s most hated training dummy. Samson could attest to the breadth of humiliations awaiting him with every sharp-knuckled knock on his chamber door, but he had to admit that being the unseen scum of the Inquisition did come with its fair share of information.

 

This being namely in the form of gossip.

 

“She’s not right, I tell you.”

 

He stands on the outskirts of the training field, a stone’s throw from some of the fresher-faced recruits. Though he remained a novelty among the denizens of Skyhold, he had learned that the younger recruits were far less likely to waste time gawking at him. Not when there were more interesting diversions around the fortress to keep them occupied. It was, perhaps, the only perk to his new life of conscription. These moments in which he gathered reconnaissance, lost in the background to children with swords who didn’t care what they were fighting for as long as it entailed some form of glory.

 

Not that he was complaining.

 

One trainee draws a thick arm across his face. “What do you mean not right,” he says slowly. “They wouldn’t’ve made her Inquisitor if she wasn’t right.”

 

The first soldier shakes his head, “No, not the Inquisitor. The other one, the loud one.” His pudgy faces creases with exertion, and Samson assumes that thought does not come easy to the lad. “Dimples, is it? The Dwarf.” When his friend states, with some confusion, that he had heard the other Inquisitor was actually a human, he huffs impatiently. “That isn’t the point!”

 

He drops his voice and leans in; making it necessary for Samson to step out of the shade to ensure that he doesn’t miss any details. “Haven’t you wondered why they sent Inquisitor Cowden off with that Qunari?” His tone borders on smug as he slings an arm around the other man’s neck. “Why the Commander’s been coming out to oversee training more and more? Especially after that business with that prisoner.”

 

Samson glances up in time to see the Inquisitor in question hopping down the steps to the training field, satchel thrown over her shoulder and a quill between her teeth. She appears to be lost in thought, her face set in a stern mask that he hadn’t thought her capable of, given that their more involved interactions had led him to believe that the woman only functioned on two planes of being: featherbrained and wrathful. As though she senses him staring, her eyes bounce up, stony expression melting from her face as she waves an arm in wild arches and sets towards him with a bounce in her step.

 

“Look at that,” the mouthy recruit mutters. “Sure, she looks happy now, but I heard it from a servant friend of mine that no one’s been up to tend to her quarters in weeks. That she keeps the door locked, and they can hear screaming inside. Like someone’s being tortured.”

 

This catches Samson’s attention, causing his eyes to leave the Inquisitor and flick to the men in surprise. Though he had begun his “trial period” under the suspicion that this was all in fact just a sadistic kind of long-form torture, he had soon come to realize that the Inquisitor genuinely believed that there was some possibility of rehabilitation. To think that she was torturing anyone was unthinkable.

 

“Well, well, well, well. What do we have here that the cat brought to the table?”

 

The Inquisitor’s mangled idiom booms out from his side, and Samson almost jumps. He hadn’t seen her loop around to catch the soldier’s off guard, and judging from the chalk-white looks of horror on their faces, they had been too busy in their insults to keep an eye out.

 

She stands with her hands on her hips, wearing an expression caught between a grin and a snarl. “Don’t let me ruin your fun, boys,” she says, her voice deadpan. “In fact, I’d love to join in on your little club meeting. What’s going on? What’s the scuttlebutt?”

 

They sputter incoherently, fractured excuses flying out of their mouths and falling flat at her feet. Samson must give the Inquisitor credit. For her small stature and soft face, she had managed to inspire more fear than he thought her capable of. “Could it be,” she continues icily, tiny hands balled into tight fists at her sides, “that you two _morons_ are too busy wondering whether I’ve got all my screws in place to focus on your training? Because I’m more than happy to hop on over to Commander Two-Strokes’ office up there in Candy Land.” Her hand comes down on the gossip-monger’s shoulder, a strangled noise leaving his throat. “Although, I’m more than capable of finding something more strenuous for you to do.”

 

Samson watches their backs as they retreat, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards into something resembling a smile. At his front, the Inquisitor lets out a shrieking laugh; yet when she turns he sees that the humor does not reach her eyes. “You run a tight ship, Inquisitor.” He says, folding his arms across his chest. “No idle hands to be seen.”

 

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs and shoves her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “Sometimes you gotta stop being a Papa Smurf and put on your leather daddy hat.”

 

_Smurf?_   Samson squints in confusion, not sure that he can even begin to grasp the meaning of her words, but the sureness behind them makes him think that the message is something profound. He glances down at her. The Inquisitor’s soft features are pulled back into their severe look, thick brows pulled into a tight frown, plump lips set into a grim line. He watches as her jaw clenches and unclenches as she stares off across the field, her dark eyes somewhere far, far away.

 

As he turns, staring up towards the crumbling walls around them, she speaks.

 

“Two Strokes isn’t working you too hard, is he?” At the sight of his obvious bemusement, she gestures up to the battlements. “You know, Commander Dickwad? Cullen?”

 

“Two Strokes?”

 

Her response is an obscene jerk of her hand followed by an unceremonious grunt and a stomach-turning splattering noise. “Get it? One, two, and he’s down for the count?”

 

He barks a laugh, the sound rattling in his chest and bouncing around inside of his ears. It startles him almost as much as it does her, and for the briefest of moments they stare at each other in a warm glow of understanding. It lasts for only a moment before the warmth leaves her eyes, replaced with that faraway look that makes Samson feel as though he might as well be a figment of her imagination.

 

“Well, I’m off then,” she says, suddenly listless. “Recruits to frighten, advisors to bother, you know.” She turns, shoulders hunching as she slinks away.

 

Samson watches her go, feeling the resentment in his own chest slowly ebb away. Perhaps there were more perks to be found within the Inquisition after all.


	16. Fallen Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's gotta a brand new computer and is officially back in writing business (hint: it's me). Here's an update to celebrate!

He had never been part of anything built to last. Even before his life as a mercenary, Krem had understood almost painfully so that there was a certain inevitability of The End lurking around every corner. He had felt this sleeping beast in the background of his childhood, had seen its grim reflection behind the glass of the dingy shaving mirror his father stood in every morning. It followed him past the limits of Tevinter, through his journeys with the Chargers and past the crumbling walls of Skyhold. He had thought it vanished then. Vanquished by the drowsy smile of a woman spat out from chaos itself. After years of chasing this fear with bottles of wine, he had found another source of intoxication to steer him from a life of never looking back. The transient life of a merc with no ties to anyone or anywhere had been behind him as he found himself further entangled in the dark thicket of her hair.

 

He had been lulled by a false sense of security, and it had finally come back to bite him in the ass.

 

Krem hears Devi’s cackle in his ears, the sound almost as sharp as the blade licking his chest. _“Shoulda watched your left, Kremmy Boy!”_

It is almost cruel, he decides as he lands on the dirt, that Devi’s voice should be the one to taunt him in his final moments. The metallic tang of blood pools in the back of his throat, gurgling as he feels his world begin to shut down around him. The Vint who took him down stands above him, watching the last shaky breaths of a dying warrior. Krem knows he must seem an awful opponent. He had seen it so many times before in his own moments of triumph. The ones you remembered were the ones who fought the hardest. The scrapers who fought back until their hands were raw, their eyes bloody, and their teeth thoroughly kicked in.

 

He had always thought he’d go out kicking. That Andraste herself would have to use force to gently steer him to the Maker’s side. He might’ve even landed a few hits on her too, if she got too close.

 

Instead he lies in the dirt. His mouth pooling with blood, his lungs gasping for air, and his heart desperately searching for Charlie’s voice in his head.

 

The darkness looms closer now, the edges of his vision blurring. It had been dark like this around the fire. The two of them cocooned in the firelight, her icy demeanor thawed by the heat and her thoughts wild with the unseen unknowns lurking around them. He sees her there, her eyes bloodshot with exhaustion, her fingers knotted in her lap.

 

_I wish I could’ve comforted you,_ he says, although the words slide back into his throat. His eyelids flutter shut, although the Charlie in his mind doesn’t seem to notice. _I hope that I made you feel safer, even if it was only slightly._

She can’t hear him, the blood in his mouth far too thick for his words to come through. He watches her hug her arms around her legs. With a muted sense of horror, he watches the campfire flicker, the flame shrinking as Charlie draws her limbs further into her body like a burning house collapsing into itself. He wants to run to her, wants to take her in his arms and make every doubt and source of danger vanish, but he finds himself caving in; dwindling like that fast-dying flame until he feels the earth at his feet disappear around him, thrusting him into a darkness far deeper and emptier than he has ever thought possible.

 

He doesn’t know if he’s falling. He cannot feel the blood in his throat, cannot sense the white-hot pain of a blade in his chest. For eons, he plunges into the darkness, unable to make sense of the dead space around him or shake the unnerving sensation that he is not alone. For the first time he screams, a silent howl that rips violently at his throat and makes no sound around him. He screams until there is nothing left to prove he is alive, his eyes stinging with tears that won’t come and his body quivering with exhaustion.

 

“Can you feel it?” The voice belongs to no one he has heard, its whisper ghosting the back of his neck with an unbridled sense of danger. “Hear them snap, one by one.”

 

A kneejerk response, like coming awake after a dream about falling. He finds himself in a bed far too small for a grown man. He gropes instantly for the weapon kept at his bedside, his fingers colliding with a small lamp left on the nightstand. Though he readies himself, he hears no shatter of glass and glances over to find the lamp unharmed and in place. The room is unfamiliar and smells of home, sunlight streaming in despite an obvious lack of visible windows. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, glancing down to find himself in simple cotton pajamas, their only defining features are the small insignias embroidered at the wrist. Someone whistles in the distance, the sound an unknown tune he can’t help but hum along to.

 

His legs take him from the bed and out the door, following the song that causes his heart to snap and flutter in his chest.

 

“It is only as real as you make it, Cremisius,” the Danger purrs softly.

 

Krem pretends not to hear as he shuffles to the dresser in the room down the hall. He traces the cracked edges of the bowl on the vanity, the sole remnant of the few fine belongings owned by the Aclassi family. A bowl set out to impress a particularly wealthy merchant family. His eyes dart up to the cloudy shaving mirror hanging above the washbowl, the face looking back causing a dam to break somewhere inside of him.

 

“Careful not to hurt yourself,” his father says softly. In his eyes, there is an understanding that Krem would spend his life searching for, a sense of acceptance felt only in the warmth of the fire on the eve of battle.

 

Krem had always found memories of his childhood to be a painful detachment carried around but never revisited. Thinking too hard about things had always made him felt as though he were reading a particularly dreary book about an unhappy girl, one of those tales of drama and growth the Seeker was so fond of. But that was not Krem’s life. The rebellious daughter of his mother’s ire was, in fact, a son who could only find acceptance there, standing at the mirror with a razorless-razor in his hand.

 

“I’ve already done it,” he says finally, staring into his father’s eyes. “Hurting,” he hears his voice crack, “it never really stopped.”

 

His father’s ghost is silent, and it is only after he stands and waits that he realizes that the two faces are one in the same. Somewhere a bell rings, somewhere far beyond the slums of Tevinter and out beyond the darkness. A thunderous crack sounds behind his eyes and the walls rattle around him until he is sure he’ll be crushed beneath the weight of his own mortality.

 

“The end.”

 

A harsh whisper on the edge of calamity, and Krem watches as the brick rains down. Finally, he shuts his eyes.

 

He feels no pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	17. Tell-Tale Heart

_Where do you go when you dream?_

Solas talks about the Fade like a long-lost friend. Devi hears it in the dreamy tones of his voice as he explains concepts that she could not have imagined in her wildest fantasies. His fingers splayed on the surface of his desk, lilting voice drifting around her head leaving images of ruins and wars, of lovers and spirits, demons and strife. He speaks to a lifetime of knowledge, never unkindly but often sympathetically. It’s almost as though he can feel the uncertainty radiating from her, as if he too can hear the Nightmare’s unceasing whisper behind her thoughts.

 

Devi can feel his eyes on her back as she takes the stairs two at a time, and she doesn’t miss the look of pity that he shares with Dorian before returning to his business. The sight is enough to drive her from the library completely.

 

_Do you know where you’ve been?_

Cassandra has been softer since the Fade. She hasn’t lost her warrior’s edge, but Devi sees it in the quiet moments between blows. She had lingered in the doorway while the Seeker had readied herself for the Iron Bull’s mission. The halo of light around the older woman had caused Devi’s knees to buckle in the most unpleasant of ways, her mind conjuring images of Cassandra’s dead lover and the spirit of the Divine. Her stomach had churned when she wished Cas good luck, offering an embrace that was more fearful than encouraging.

 

Though it was she who initiated contact, Devi couldn’t help but recoil as her ears picked up the sound of Cassandra’s heart beating calmly in her chest.

 

_Do you know what’s happened to you?_

 

The night of the Chargers’ arrival, the skies above Skyhold open, unleashing a fury of thunder and rain worthy of the Storm Coast.

 

Devi awakes to a funeral procession clambering through the gates, headed by the Inquisitor come to reclaim her throne. She meets Charlie at the gates to find her fellow Inquisitor bleary eyed and drenched in blood. Her jaw is clenched almost as tightly as her fists at her sides. She brushes past Devi without a word, leaving a trail of grief behind her.

 

Vivienne’s hands quake as she struggles to maintain the barrier covering the shrouded figure being wheeled in. Devi watches in a daze as the party moves past her. The Iron Bull is a hulking figure at his side, his eyes red-rimmed and far away.

 

“Krem took a bad hit,” he says, his voice cracked and splintered. “Lady Viv did what she could, but,” raindrops slide down his face. “It doesn’t look good, Killer.”

 

_Do you know where you are?_

She stops leaving her quarters once the healers have no use for her. She doesn’t observe training bouts, doesn’t check the map in the War Room, doesn’t make an effort.

 

The unseen hands at Skyhold leave trays outside her door, slip notes under the cracks when they return to find that she hasn’t touched the meals. The Advisors start coming by, starting with Josie and Leliana offering soft coos of encouragement and ending with Cullen banging down the door until she’s certain it’ll fly off its ancient hinges. But Devi doesn’t budge. Instead she sits in the center of the clutter, the stone floor hidden by tomes and scraps of parchment. Painstakingly she traces runes with her finger, growing frustrated at her limited grasp of the written word in front of her. Reading had been simple with a guiding hand to sound the words out, but now she is alone and encumbered by her own inexperience.

 

After shattering her knuckles against the wall after a particularly trying text, she calls on someone for help.

 

_Do you know what you need?_

Maddox lies in a sea of thick blankets, perhaps the best-kept secret the Inquisition has to offer. The healers on his case are certain he is able to walk, that the poison ravaging his body has been completely expelled. But Devi has come to treasure the company and is unwilling to take any chances.

 

He greets her listlessly, and for once Devi does not waste time getting to her point.

 

“Tell me about the Tranquil,” she demands, setting her books down with a thud on a nearby table. “About the Fade, about mages, tell me everything. And don’t hold back.”

 

_Is everything all right?_

Her talk with Maddox leaves her with more questions than answers, and they run through her head as she draws the blade of the dagger lightly against the skin of her palm. Devi sets the knife down on the bed, taking a deep breath before pinching herself sharply on the thigh. She winces at first before realizing this reaction is one of reflex, and she tries again with her eyes closed.

 

_The pain isn’t there_ , she thinks frantically. _There’s nothing, I can’t feel anything._

 

Eyes flying open, she pinches up and down her legs, each time allowing her nails to dig a little more sharply into her skin. But nothing works. She can’t feel it on her legs, or on her arms, or even the typically-baby-soft skin of her cheeks. In a state of panic her hand flies towards the dagger at her side, fingers curling around the handle. Without any semblance of hesitation or self-control, she drives the blade into her thigh.

 

If she cannot find the answer in pain, she will find it in blood.

 

_Have you found what you’ve been looking for?_

Samson sports his usual scowl when she arrives at the Battlements. He is covered in dirt from a day of following Cullen’s orders, and Devi can’t help but applaud him on his resilience. She approaches with a wave, ignoring the slight quirk of his eyebrow when he takes in the sight of her.

 

She knows she must look a mess. Her knuckles had swollen and turned an unsightly puce color, and there is a tear in her trousers leaving an unfortunate window to the jagged knife-wound from the other night’s events. But Samson doesn’t question her, not even when he notices the accompanying cuts on her hands, and that is why she has chosen him.

 

“How’s it going, Slug Man?” She asks, the most amicable she has sounded in weeks. “Two Strokes giving you a run for your silvers yet?”

 

He chuckles dryly, staring out into the Frostbacks. “Better than the alternatives, isn’t it?” When she asks what those alternatives are, he doesn’t reply, choosing instead to rest his weight gingerly against the crumbling wall of the bridge. “Don’t suppose you came here looking for a chat, Inquisitor.”

 

Devi notices that he no longer sneers this title at her, and the thought is enough to make the breath hitch in her throat.

“I need a favor,” she replies. “It’ll be weird, but you’re the only one up for the task.” She shrugs, “Mostly because you’re not allowed to say no to what I ask.”

 

He grunts, and it is enough encouragement for her to step forward until they are almost chest to chest. If Samson is uncomfortable with the proximity, he makes no comment, instead staring over her head and back out to the mountains. Devi’s ear hovers above his heart, and she leans forward until she can make out the sound of it. _Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump_. The sound is a steady beat inside of his chest, an unwavering drumbeat against her ear.

 

“I need a favor,” she repeats, a lump forming in her throat.

 

“So you’ve said,” he replies. Stepping back, Samson awaits his instruction, his face blank and unbothered.

 

Devi thrusts out her hand, baring her wrist to him as though making an offering at some unholy altar. “Look for it,” she says, “a pulse, I mean.”

 

“Is this a game, Inquisitor?” He asks, one eyebrow lifting in amusement. “Have you come to reveal yourself as one of Corypheus’ darkspawn? Shall we start referring to you as the Inquisition’s Genlock?” When she doesn’t budge, her hand only jutting out in insistence, he heaves a sigh. “Very well, beats clearing out stables.”

 

Samson takes her hand in his, resting two calloused fingertips along the inside of her wrist. Devi waits, knowing there can only be two outcomes, and praying that the one she expects is not the one to turn out. Samson’s brow furrows as he moves his fingers along her wrist, and she knows he is searching in vain to find the pulse mirroring his own. He lets her go, watching as her arm falls limply to her side. Wordlessly, he leans forward, bending until he can press his own ear to her chest. Devi doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, knowing that if she had been able to find her heartbeat it would be hammering in her ears by now.

 

Finally, Samson steps back, his face expectant. “Is that it?” He asks finally.

 

Devi thinks that this is an awfully lukewarm reception to finding out your boss is dead, but she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she nods. “Mmhm, that’s it. Neat trick, huh?” Her voice threatens to crack, but she pushes the feelings down. “I’m gonna bring that one with me to Orlais.” Turning, she faces the mountains. “Well, you’d better skedaddle on down to the training fields. I’m sure they’re missing their dummy.”

 

He grunts again, turning and setting towards the stairs. Pausing at the first step, he glances back. “You should come along,” he says finally. “The men haven’t had the Genlock put them in their place. They’re growing restless.”

 

_How affectionately he speaks,_ she thinks, _for someone forced to be here._ “I’ll head down in a bit.”

 

_Do you know where you’re going?_

Her feet curl around the wall of the battlements, wind rushing around her ears and shooing away her better judgements. From somewhere over the Frostbacks she hears her name being called, something like the sound of coming home after a long and tiring day.

 

She can hear screaming in the courtyard.

 

_Where do you go when you dream?_

She finds her heartbeat as her feet leave the edge.


	18. What Goes Up

Charlie remembers the first time she had ever gone to a funeral. She had been a child, no older than six or seven, unable to fully comprehend what was happening, or why so many people were crying the way that they were. Even when she had gone up to see the body, her mother leading her there with a handkerchief clutched in one hand and Charlie’s tiny hand in the other, she had thought it look as though the person was only sleeping. Years later she would stumble across grisly images of corpses on the internet, poor souls who hadn’t made it to the mortician’s makeup table, and realize that death was far less glamourous than her childhood self had been led to believe.

 

She clutches Krem’s hand and presses it to her lips, squeezing it tighter than her mother had on that day so many years ago. “I thought we,” she stares at him. “I thought I lost you.”

 

The Lieutenant smiles, the eye uncovered by bandages crinkling warmly at the corners. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily, your worship.” He replies, a shadow of his former strength behind fragile tones.

 

Charlie wants to cry, choosing instead to place another kiss in the center of Krem’s palm. She ignores the bashful look of the healer changing his bandages at the foot of the bed, finding that she no longer cares about anything other than the fact that Krem is alive. The journey from the Storm Coast had been unbearable. Charlie had, since arriving at Skyhold, chosen teams like she was playing an RPG. This had made for a fairly balanced group of Cassandra, Sera, and Vivienne that had made her journeys throughout the continent as simple as they possibly could be. But escorting Krem’s body back to Skyhold had been a job that even her most trusted companions had not been prepared for, and for once Charlie wished that she would’ve even considered bringing Solas along for the task. But how could she have known? Vivienne’s healing had never failed them after slicing their way through demons or Red Templars. She couldn’t have known that Bull would’ve placed the life of his team in her hands. Couldn’t have known that Krem would’ve been hacked to bits, laying dying on a mountain by the time they could fight their way over. Neither she nor Vivienne could have prepared themselves for his heart to stop, the wounds from the Venatori mages tearing open at the slightest bumps in the path.

 

Charlie strokes his cheekbone lightly, not daring to put any pressure behind her fingertips for fear of breaking him once more. “Me get rid of you?” She murmurs, “Not on your life.” Reluctantly, she rises from the chair she had been planted in since returning to Skyhold. “I have to meet with the Advisors. I don’t want to, but the last servant to come by says it’s crazy important.” She fidgets, “Unless you need me to stay. I’m sure Cullen can mark his own damn maps for a few more hours.”

 

“I’ve taken enough of your time, your worship.” Krem replies, sinking back into the pillows. He looks exhausted, and Charlie suppresses the panic swelling in her throat. She is too afraid to admit that she is worried that once she leaves, he’ll try dying on her again. “Go be the Inquisitor,” his voice breaks through those thoughts, soothing her. “I’ll be here when you return.”

 

With a heavy heart, she turns and heads toward the door, trying to focus on the task at hand. Before she can lift her hand to wrap around the doorknob, she spins, charging back over to his bedside. “I didn’t mean to,” she blurts out. Krem looks startled, his eyes widening when the floodgates open.

 

Charlie knows this is a crucial time. Knows that she should be protecting him from anything that might rip him away from her once more. But she cannot stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks, her voice quivering in her throat. “When I saw you there,” she tries again. “I saw you there, and I didn’t mean to do any of it. Ignoring you after what you said in Emprise, giving you those awful looks,” she kneels and buries her face against the mattress. “I was so _afraid_ , Krem. Afraid of why what you said hurt me so badly, afraid that Devi wasn’t the only person who I wanted by my side after so long.” She lifts her head, her hand hovering above his own.

 

“But I’m tired,” she continues. “Tired of running from you, from running from everything. Seeing you there on the ground, it forced me to face the facts. I –”

 

“Inquisitor!”

 

Her confession is cut short, the words coming to a screeching halt inside of her throat and a high-pitched wheeze taking their place. In a rare show of rage, Charlie spins, her entire body ablaze. “Of all the – what? What is it?”

 

Her fury is cooled at the sight of the white-faced scout clinging to the doorframe. “I-inquisitor, I don’t know – I didn’t know who else to,” her body quakes as she struggles to get the words out. “Inquisitor, I think you’re needed in the courtyard.”

 

Charlie feels her brain kick into overdrive, the possibilities of everything that could possibly be going wrong running through her mind. _Corypheus is in the courtyard,_ she thinks wildly. _He’s out there, slaughtering soldiers and taking names. No, too calm for Corypheus. The Venatori are back. They’re back for Krem, to finish him off. I can’t let_ –

 

Krem’s fingers ghost over the exposed skin of her forearm, and her head jerks in his direction. She meets his eyes and finds them blazing, a shadow of a grin tilting the corner of his mouth. “Go, your worship. I’ll be here.”

 

For the first time since arriving in Thedas, Charlie feels the stranglehold around her heart loosen, the fear receding just enough for her to find her footing and follow the scout from the healers’ quarters and out into the courtyard. For a moment, she is relieved to see that no, Corypheus is not tearing his way through the courtyard, nor are there any Venatori to be seen. However, where there is an absence of any obvious villain, there also exists a horrified silence shrouding the typically-bustling space. Charlie pushes through the crowd of stagnant bodies, slowly following their petrified stares up to the battlements.

 

Charlie remembers the first funeral she went to for a person she loved. She remembers wishing that – if there were Gods – that they would take something else, anyone else. The thought had occurred to her as Viv struggled to stop Krem from bleeding out somewhere along the Frostbacks. That the world – both Thedas and her own – would take anything, anybody else. Anything to leave Krem behind.

 

_“You’re a thinker, I like that. Kinda slow on the uptake, but not because nobody’s home upstairs,” an impish face covered by a crooked grin. “I’m gonna call you Flash.”_

Devi’s feet leave the ledge, and a scream that tears at her lungs and rattles her bones rips through Charlie’s throat.

 

_“It’s just you and me out here, Flash. But that’s okay, because I think we’re like two peas in the same soup. You know the one with those little chunks of ham?”_ A tiny hand always clapping her just a little too roughly on the back _._

_“Point is, I think we’re gonna make it.”_

 


	19. Broken Bones and Shattered Words

“I’ll kill him! Do you hear me, Cassandra? I’ll kill that son of a bitch. Let me through. _Let me through!_ ”

 

This is not the life Samson had envisioned for himself. Following his _dismissal_ from the Order, he had always assumed that if the lyrium didn’t kill him, someone else would surely come along and put him out of his misery. Under Corypheus, he had been filled with a different sort of pride. It was warped and tarnished, but it had been his. That was, until, he had fully understood his role as a tool for his master; fated to become a monster like the rest of his men. And then the Inquisition had come along, plucked him from the desert and given him another undue chance. It was one covered in manure and bruises, but it had been a chance.

 

He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the same cell he had been so graciously taken out of. Blood pools in the back of his mouth, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. _Heartbeat._ Samson had seen the look of fear in the Inquisitor’s eyes from the moment he stepped out onto the battlements. He was far more observant than the mighty Inquisition gave him credit for, and it didn’t take a sharp-eyed scout to see that there was something wrong with the Inquisitor.

 

But Samson had chosen to brush it off, to hopefully quell her fears with a casual attitude. He had thought himself quite clever too, as he headed down to the training field; and that feeling had stuck with him up until the moment he turned his head at the second Inquisitor’s scream.

 

With some effort he sits up, spitting the blood from his mouth and not caring where it lands.

 

_“That’s fuckin’ gross, dude.”_

 

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. How could he have known that she would jump? It wasn’t as though he had been the one to place her on the edge.

 

 _Her eyes had looked so far away, you’ve been thinking it for weeks_.

 

The sound of scraping against the stone floor is enough to draw his attention, and he sees the remaining Inquisitor sitting stone-faced in front of the cell door. Her face is marked by tear-tracks, her dark eyes ablaze. He must give her credit, he had thought the Inquisition’s diplomat to be incapable of such a fury, having heard nothing but tales of her level-headedness. That had changed, of course, once she had broken his jaw.

 

“Come to finish me off then, Cowden?” He spits, “Perhaps another healing session, to make sure this beating sticks?” Samson knows that the situation does not call for an attitude, but the words leave his mouth despite this.

 

Her fists clench and unclench in her lap, and he notices they’ve been bandaged. “Is that really how you want to talk to me?” She asks, her voice low and dangerous. “Are you _really_ certain that this is the tone you want to take with me right now?” When Samson doesn’t answer, she delivers a sharp kick to the door.

 

The noise rattles him, as he is sure it’s intended to, but he is surprised to see no look of triumph. Upon his capture, Samson had been almost ashamed to be taken down by an organization led by – in his eyes – two toddlers with an exaggerated sense of power. But staring at the Inquisitor now, she looks as weary and beaten down as he feels, and the thought sits unpleasantly in his guts.

 

“It should’ve been you.”

 

Cowden’s voice is only a touch louder than a whisper, her eyes planted in her lap. “Devi wrote me,” her voice wavers. “She wrote me after your little trial. Said that you’d be useful.” She rubs her forehead. “She kept a record, you know, of your duties. Stables, training, things like that.” He can see the tears dripping from her nose and onto her hands. “It was so silly, the way she was keeping track of it. Like you were a kid or something, and not some –”

 

_Murderer._

“She had all these little drawings. One day you’d get a gold star, and another a flower, and,” she presses her hands against her eyes. “She thought you were useful. She was the only one and you – why did you do it? How could you do it?”

 

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know why he wasn’t more reassuring. He had never been one for empty words, a hollow shoulder to cry on in a moment of weakness. Samson had always been of the mindset that it was your actions that proved your intentions, rather than words that only served as a temporary relief. He had done all he could for the Inquisitor, hadn’t he? What happened now was completely out of his hands.

 

“Do what you will, Cowden.” He says sullenly, shifting his gaze to the wall. “Kill me if you must. I have nothing more to offer the Inquisition.”

 

Samson turns his back on the grieving woman, finding that he can no longer muster up the will to fight. He closes his eyes and waits for the blow.

 


	20. General Hospi-Tale

_Funny_ , Krem thinks, _that you doze off for an hour and everything changes._

 

The healer changing the bandages on his chest won’t meet his eyes, her jaw clenched tightly when he repeats his question. “What’s going on? Sounds like someone died out there or something.”

 

He knows it’s a tasteless thing to say – they are at war, after all – but he doesn’t expect it to rip a sob from the healer’s throat. “Inquisitor Cow– _the_ Inquisitor will tell you if she sees fit.” She says tightly, her eyes welling up with the beginnings of tears.

 

She gathers her supplies, feet carrying her out the door as though she cannot wait to be rid of him. Krem sighs, the sound echoing around the empty room. He glances down at the fresh bandages around his torso. He takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut. He can feel the healers’ work continuing, though the team assigned to him had long since been narrowed down to a single checker. The tissues knit together, the dull throb of their work spreading from his chest throughout his body.

 

He can’t remember the last time he had breathed so easily.

 

The first few months of binding had been awfully painful, and it was a discomfort that hadn’t really changed over the years. He had learned breathing techniques. _Arch your shoulders. Deep breath – in, out, in, out. Cough once. Remember not to wear it too long, no matter how much it hurts._

 

Binding had been a means to an end. To live his life as truly as he could without the aid of blood magic. As it turned out, however, the panels of that same binder had saved his life.

 

The doorknob turns, shaking Krem from his thoughts. To his delight, Charlie enters the room, a stack of leather journals cradled in her arms. He beams at her, holding his arms out as far as he can without hurting himself too badly. “I’ve missed you,” he says brightly. “No one will tell me what’s going on. The nurses come in and whisper to each other, but they freeze up when I ask questions.” He frowns, feigning worry. “It isn’t suitors, is it? Some awful Orlesian come to whisk you away?”

 

However, Krem’s put-on concern soon turns real as Charlie sits down. Her knuckles are cut and bruised, eyes bloodshot and weary. When she sets the journals down on the bedside table, he sees her hands are shaking.

 

“Love,” he says slowly.

 

“I used to see her writing.” Charlie’s eyes are far away, her voice quiet. “I saw her scribbling from the moment I met her. Taking notes before I would wake up in the morning, jotting down every single setback when putting together the gauntlet, making copies of the notes left on the door of the cabin.” Her voice quivers, “I didn’t know, Krem. She didn’t tell me she was so,” she trails off.

 

“What,” he’s confused, his brain struggling to piece together Charlie’s fragmented thoughts. “Devi, Devi was writing? Why don’t we just go get her. Well,” he has never hated bedrest so much as this moment. “You can go get her!” Charlie starts to cry and his thoughts turn frantic. “No, no, no! Wait! We can tell a healer or a scout to go get her! Love,” he rubs her back as she doubles over, body heaving with sobs. “Love, please stop crying. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

 

“She couldn’t remember,” Charlie sobs. “She couldn’t remember having long hair, wrote that she was sure it had been short when she left. She tried,” she sits up, pawing desperately through the journals. “Look at this, Krem. She cut a lock of her hair every night, but it’d be right there when she woke up in the morning. She tied them all together, tucked them here for proof. But it always grew back, it was never real.”

 

Sure enough, between the pages lies a single plait, tied together neatly with a red ribbon. “I’m,” Krem’s voice is strained, a creeping sense of dread washing over him. “I’m still certain that if we just ask her.”

 

But Krem slowly understands that there is no way to ask Devi for an explanation. In that moment, he realizes just why she has never come up to see him, even though he had found her absence to be very strange. Krem leans back against the pillows, suddenly feeling very weak.

 

Neither he nor Charlie speaks for a long time, her sobs slowly quieting into something far angrier than grief. She sits up, taking deep breaths as she draws her hands across her face. “There was something wrong. He said that he noticed something wrong.”

 

Though she looks at Krem, he can tell that she is talking to herself if anyone. The look in her eyes is harder than he had ever seen her look before. For whoever “he” is, Krem hopes that there is a Maker to show mercy. Andraste knows Charlie didn’t look like she would.

 

She clenches her teeth and stands, leaving the journals scattered as she turns. “I have to go talk to Cullen. I’ll come back once this is all taken care of.”

 

He watches her go, feeling more helpless than he has ever felt before. To say he hated bedrest was an understatement. It was torture, sitting cooped up inside without any sort of release date. He was a prisoner tucked under a duvet. He hated the duress his internment had put Charlie under, but now – considering these new and horrible developments – he is filled with dread.

 

A heavy death sentence hanging over the ward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In summary: https://imgur.com/a/2noji


	21. Back to the Future

Devi wakes up screaming, bracing herself for a fall that never comes.

 

Her eyes ricochet inside of her skull, chest heaving as she tries and fails to control her breathing. She feels as though she’s just woken up from a particularly long nightmare, the kind that feels like you’ve been asleep for days instead of just a few hours.

 

_“The nightmare you forget upon waking.”_

The thought is sudden, the voice both unfamiliar and missed inside her heart. She feels as though she’s missing something. Missing something very important. And the thought is enough to open the floodgates and reduce her into a puddle of heaving sobs.

 

She can hear the footsteps frantic on the stairs, the door flying open and her mother’s voice high and worried from the doorway. “What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

But Devi can only cry. How can she describe the tightness in her chest, the feeling of homesickness despite being tucked away safely in her bedroom? She cries until she tires herself out, her grip on her mother’s nightshirt loosening as she collapses back into bed.

 

_“Just wing it. I know that’s what I did.”_

 

Devi’s up and restless a few hours later, her eyes glued to her computer and her fingers flying frantically over the keyboard. _Just wing it_ , she thinks. _He said that choices matter, right? So what choice am I gonna make?_ She doesn’t know who “he” is, doesn’t know what types of choices she is expected to make. Doesn’t know why she feels as though the world is depending on these choices.

 

“Are you feeling any better?” Her father sets a mug of cocoa down on the desk next to her, his hand warm against the buzzed side of her head.

 

She remembers her hair being longer, remembers something far away and long ago. She hasn’t kept her hair long in years, the mohawk a persistent effect from her punk phase (or rather, the more obvious show of her _ongoing_ punk phase). She hums absently to the question, clicking through web page after web page, scrolling through mountains of information.

 

“Why are you googling _Charles in Charge_?”

 

She sighs heavily, resting her head against his arm. “Dunno, Dad, just felt important.”

 _“The left! Krem Puff! Block your_ left _! Make the L with your hand if you can’t remember!”_

She finds herself staring at cream puffs at bakeries. Not even in a hungry way – they just make her sad. Just like the way Kermit the Frog does, or really the sight of anything even slightly resembling a frog. She feels like there’s something important she’s missing. Why else would she start sobbing in the middle of that bakery? She tries drawing a picture. That had gotten her through grad school, hadn’t it? Drawing out maps and outlines and doodles of historical figures as animals. She draws a picture of two frogs holding hands and labels them Charles and Kermit before shortening it to Charlie and Kerm.

 

It doesn’t feel correct, but it makes her feel a little better.

 

_“You’ve been clear from the start that you aren’t taking this seriously, but our very lives are at stake.”_

 

She is a twenty-five-year-old with a Ph.D. and she is absolutely miserable. She wishes she were out making a difference, instead of sitting and combing through mountains of academia. She hates working on research, and for some reason she wishes she could punch something.

 

_They didn’t have enough healing poultices. There’s still a bundle of Elfroot in my desk._

 

Her head snaps up from the stack of papers in front of her, her heart slamming inside of her ears. _What? What was that?_ The thought, as suddenly as it appears, threatens to vanish. Devi screws up her eyes, trying desperately to visualize the thought before it can leave completely. _Elfroot – a common plant used primarily for healing poultices and potions. Mother Giselle had given me a list for Elfroot and Blood Lotus._

 

Before she realizes what she’s doing, Devi shoots to her feet. “I have to get to Skyhold,” she says loudly. The statement bounces around the walls of her bedroom.

 

She is breathless, her fists curled into tight balls at her side. It feels as though a seal has been broken, the air around her crackling with electricity as she repeats this statement over and over. _Charlie. Charlie’s waiting for me. Everyone’s waiting._ She remembers standing on the battlements with Samson, his head tucked under her chin and his ear against her heart.

 

Something had been taken from her. The morning she had woken up in that hut in the outskirts of Ferelden, she had felt as though her very soul had been ripped from her. She remembers being lost, walking through the balance between Ferelden and home in a daze. Waking up in one place or the other until finally she wasn’t so lonely anymore. Playing stupid was easy when your head was in a fog, but Charlie was still trapped. In jumping she had taken her life back, and on the way down things had become clearer than they ever could’ve been trapped within the perfectly obscured lie she had been living.

 

There were far greater threats than Corypheus. Cullen hadn’t been wrong when he had told her she wasn’t acting serious enough, but he had chalked it up to stupidity. Devi knows better, and clearing the papers from her desk she gets to work. Trivial research would have to wait.

 

For the sake of her world and the next.


	22. The One Where Charlie Gets Stabbed

“How does it feel, Samson?” Rutherford smirks at him. “To know you’ve squandered your final chance at redemption?”

 

Samson wishes his hands were free, the thought that he will die without delivering even a single punch to that smarmy face more painful than the idea of death itself. _Final chance,_ he thinks. _My_ only _chance. Your friend hadn’t deemed me fit to rejoin the Order in Kirkwall. Corypheus was using me as a pawn. The only one who’s ever seen any potential in me was –_

 

“How’s your friend Hawke, Commander?” Samson’s lip curls into a sneer. “Haven’t heard much from him since your business in the Approach.”

 

A dark look crosses the younger man’s face, and he grabs Samson by the front of his shirt and jerks him out of the guards’ grasp. “You keep Hawke’s name out of your mouth, you pathetic waste of space. Hawke was a better man than you will ever be. A man who believed in the Order and what it stood for. Not a traitor who aided apostates and blood mages and Tevinter magisters.”  He releases him roughly, the guards scrambling to Samson’s sides. Rutherford’s dark eyes sweep over him coolly. “You’d better hope there is a kind and forgiving Maker, Samson. Because you will find no sympathy out there.”

 

“Are you holding the blade?” Samson asks flatly. Rutherford replies that Cowden will act as executioner, and Samson shrugs. “Then I’ve already found my peace.”

 

The sunlight is harsh when he is led outside. A sea of snarling faces follow his every move, from where he exits the dungeons to the platform where he will take his last breaths. No face, however, is as frightening as that of the remaining inquisitor. Cowden stands with her back ramrod straight, a glittering blade with a serpentine handle resting nearby. It isn’t her expression that frightens Samson the most, but rather her eyes. They are far away, distant much like the Inquisitor’s had been before she had taken that fateful plunge. _I wonder if they ever found her body,_ he thinks fleetingly. He knows that scouts had been sent, but there was never any word saying that they found anything.

 

He is led up the steps of the platform and shoved down onto the chopping block. The mutterings of the crowd billow into a dull roar, and Cowden lifts her arms and her voice above the noise. “People of Skyhold,” she booms. “This is the man who murdered your Inquisitor. A man who feigned remorse and took advantage of your Inquisitor’s kindness in order to carry out his master’s bidding.”

 

_He is sore and angry from another day of sweeping out the stables, his clothes soiled and his mind weary. As he dreams of sinking onto the mattress and finding some relief in sleep, the door flies open, revealing the Inquisitor on the other side. She grins when she sees him, though he knows his face is anything but friendly._

_“Sam Bam Thank You Ma’am!” She delivers a hearty punch to his shoulder, one that he knows is going to leave a bruise. Though, Samson can tell she hasn’t done it intentionally. “Look at you, buddy! One week with the Inquisition and you’re already looking better! I think I even see some color in those pasty cheeks!”_

_“That would be horse shit,” he deadpans. “Where are the guards? They don’t allow anyone in this room alone.” He bares his teeth, “Lest I tear any throats and offer a blood sacrifice to my master.”_

_“I’m your master now, baby,” she says, unfazed. “And I only accept sacrifice in the form of jelly beans and a good day’s work.” She punches him again. “Which you have done! I,” she reaches into the pouch at her hip, pulling out something sticky wrapped in cheesecloth, “swiped this from the kitchens for you. Think of it as an incentive for more good work. Or just eat it, ya dig?” She eyes him, her nose crinkling slightly. “Maybe consider washing your hands first.”_

“The Inquisitor knew what she was doing.” He says suddenly, his eyes planted on the floor.

 

Cowden stops talking, and he can feel her eyes hot on the top of his head. “What the fuck did you just say?” She asked.

 

“Ask your _mabari_ ,” he spits, eyeing Rutherford. “She made her decision. She knew what she was doing.”

 

She looks dumbstruck, but this lasts only a moment before she charges, forgetting the blade on the side of the platform and looking as though she would rather get the job done with her bare hands. There is still a guard holding him down, and before she can deliver a starting blow, they hear it.

 

“Charlie!”

 

Cowden freezes in front of him, her whole body going rigid as she turns in search of the noise. “D-Devi?” She stammers in disbelief.

 

“Charlie!” The voice comes again, moving closer and closer through the crowd. “Charlie, don’t kill him yet! Wait a minute! Can you – excuse me, get outta my way – Charlie, I’m comin’! Don’t stab anybody!”

 

The hand on his back loosens just enough for Samson to push himself up onto his haunches. The crowd parts slowly, people too dumbstruck to get out of the way fast enough. No one speaks, no one pushes him back down, no one points her to the stairs when she hurls herself at the platform in an attempt to get her leg up and over the edge. Everyone just watches, waits, as the Inquisitor claws her way up and stands triumphant in front of them. Returned from the dead.

 

“Charles in Charge,” she sings hopping over to Cowden with her arms outstretched. “I missed you, buddy! Long time no see!” She frowns, “Well, it’s been more like twenty minutes. But I just missed you _that much_.”

 

“Twenty min– Devi, it’s been a month!” Cowden doesn’t return the Inquisitor’s embrace, although Samson chalks part of that up to the fact that the other woman has her arms pinned to her sides. “What happened, where have you been?” She finally pushes her back, “Why is your hair short? And all of those pierc– _what?_ ”

 

It happens quicker than Samson can process. The flash of the dagger in the Inquisitor’s hand behind Cowden’s back. Cowden pulling herself back to see clearly, giving the Inquisitor the only opening she needed. The blade plunging into the side of Cowden’s neck, the Inquisitor furiously apologizing as she drags it clean and deep to the other side.

 

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Rutherford is the first to act, charging across the platform and grabbing the Inquisitor before she can kill anyone else. “Somebody call the healers! Somebody do something!”

 

But it’s too late, and Cowden’s body vanishes in a flash of light.


	23. Rude Awakening

“Jesus, Charlie, your shift’s been over for fifteen minutes now!” A hand comes down hard on the tabletop, jolting her awake. “Someone was at the desk asking for you. They left this and said you’d need it.”

 

Charlie blinks, her hands still shaking. _What kind of fucked up dream was that?_ She thinks, chewing idly on her thumb. She doesn’t remember much, but she does remember her head being cut off somewhere near the end. And that hadn’t been fun at _all._ Sitting in the now-empty break room, she draws her arm across her mouth, just in case she’s been drooling through her nap. She had stopped in for a free cup of coffee, something to keep her awake on the train ride home. _I knew I was tired, but I didn’t think I was “pass out in the break room” tired._ Though, she shouldn’t be as surprised as she is. It was like her soul had been bogged down for the last few, well, years.

 

She glances at the package the manager left behind. It’s clumsily wrapped, the paper covered in frantic, messy handwriting that she can’t really make out. _My birthday’s not for months,_ she thinks idly as she slides one fingernail under one of the looser corners. The contents of the package slide out and onto the table, and Charlie is hit with an unfamiliar barrage of scents that feel more comforting than home.

 

Charlie stares down at the mess she’s just made on the break room table. There are some strange-looking plants, a few gold coins, and a leather-bound journal that looks like it’s definitely seen better days. “What kind of shitty gift is this?” She asks aloud. _At least there’s chocolate._

 

When she reaches for the coin, however, she finds that it is quite solid. Holding it in the center of her palm, she stares down, her brain struggling to process the heavy weight. _I don’t know anyone who’d just send a gold coin. Don’t know anyone with_ access _to a gold coin._

 

The chatter of her co-workers grabs her attention, and hastily she scoops the remaining items into her messenger bag, slipping the coins into her pockets as she gets up from the table. It is only on the train ride home that she dares peek into her bag, the now-crushed plants and journal staring up at her. She thumbs the worn pages of the diary, her eyes scanning the text-heavy pages. _Whoever sent this is out of their mind if they think I’m gonna be able to read all –_ her eyes pause on an envelope tucked into the middle of the book – _this._

She pulls the envelope out of her bag. It’s unmarked, sealed with a wax seal that looks like – she squints, _Is that a flaming eyeball?_ Slowly peeling the seal back, she recognizes the same tiny scrawl from the gift’s wrapping.

 

_Wood-Chuck Charles,_

She frowns almost immediately. _Is that supposed to be me? What kind of name is that?_ Suppressing the urge to shred the letter and dump it at the next stop, she takes a deep breath and tries again.

 

_We are fucked. We are Rule 34rd out here, Charles. Just a god-damn mess. I read in a book somewhere that smells are good for taking people back, so take a big whiff of that Elfroot to jog your memory. If that doesn’t work, I put in your diary (don’t worry, I only read some of it). You need to read it all, or at least enough to remember, because this job ain’t small enough for just one of us. We weren’t there, Charlie, but we gotta go and make it real. The heartbeats, the hair – none of it made any sense. It was like dreaming, being trapped between two worlds. Maddox told me something about Tevinter Dreamers, but we don’t have mages where we come from, right? But something happened. Something tried to trap us in that cabin, and I’m not about to take that sitting down. _

_You have to meet me here, Flash, I can’t do it without you. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I know you gotta get here. Just follow these directions._

_(and sorry about the murder)_

The note is signed off with a lopsided heart, followed by a list numbered from one to one hundred. Charlie feels the pressure pooling in her temples as she closes her eyes, and she pinches the bridge of her noise in exasperation. _Jesus Christ, Devi, this doesn’t tell me anything._

 

Her eyes fly open as the train slows into the station. Charlie gets off in a daze, clutching her bag to her chest as she takes the short walk from the station to her apartment. _Devi? Where did that come from?_

_“No time for questions, Charles! There’s work to be done!”_

The voice that enters her thoughts is high and cartoonish, and for some reason it makes her heart ache. She sets her bag down on the counter, pausing to fish out the journal before sinking onto the sofa. Flipping over the cover is enough to send her spiraling, and she stares at the first page with wide-eyes. She traces her fingertip over each letter, recognizing the flowery loops of her own handwriting.

 

_Undated Entry – Night One_

_She says her name is Devi, and that she’s as confused as I am. There’s something fishy about this whole thing. If she’s so confused, how could she navigate this place when looking for supplies? How did she even know which plants to forage for, or when the wolves hunted and where? Something isn’t right here, but where am I supposed to go? She calls this place Ferelden, but I think I might be in hell._

Charlie is taken back to the hut, though she feels as though she’s watching a familiar movie as opposed to remembering something. She remembers waking up in an unfamiliar hut alone, a fire roaring and a well-lived-in bed on the other side of the room. _Hadn’t Devi said we came together? Or had I assumed?_

_Undated Entry – Night 1,400_

_I fall asleep every night clutching this journal, but it’s always on the table when I wake up. Devi says she has theories, says that they’ll make my head spin (and hers if she tries to explain). Cassandra’s set us up in a spare room until we have some permanent quarters. Knowing this place, nothing is permanent, and it’ll all disappear by the morning. Devi hasn’t stopped trying to cut her hair. In four years, you’d think she’d get the hint. But I haven’t faulted her for trying, and I won’t start now. God knows I have my own hang-ups about this place. Met with the Chargers (named for their horned leader?). The Lieutenant seems nice ~~it’d be a shame if none of this was happening.~~_

__

_Undated Entry – Night ???_

_I need him to be real. I spent so long running, but I need him to be real. And I need him to survive. Viv says his breathing’s getting better, but I know he’ll stop again. He’ll stop and try to die on me, just like he did on the road from the Storm Coast. It’s my fault, clutching the journal every night before I go to bed, trying to prove that it was never real to begin with. He has to pull through. Devi’s tried to visit, tried to slip notes through the crack in the door. But how can I help her when I can’t help myself? I was supposed to be strong, but I couldn’t believe hard enough. If you let him wake up, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give anything to have him back. I’ve already given my heart, what more does this place need?_

Charlie throws clothes into a backpack she saves for the hike she’s never taken. She pauses to gently tuck the ears of Elfroot between the pages of her journal, slipping Devi’s instructions into her pocket before heading out the door. She pauses once in the doorframe, looking back at what she is prepared to leave behind. She has never been good with goodbyes, has always found them to be too painful to do properly.

 

But preparing to leave her old life, she realizes that she had already let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are we all excited about these plot points i'm going to have to remember to wrap up eventually?


	24. Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyoo! It's been a while, hasn't it. I'm usually pretty regular with updates, but prepping for the end of the semester has left me with very little time for writing (gotta love senior year). I'm also working on a pretty extensive AU that i may or may not post (depending on my recipient's feelings), so that's also taking up quite a bit of energy. BUT, I'm still chugging away, so don't think I've jumped ship!

Krem pushes through the sharp pain shooting through his chest, forcing himself to stand tall despite the urge to crumble. “Let me through, Cullen,” he says, mustering a courage he does not feel. “I need to see her.”

 

The Commander looks weary, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken. Krem had never understood the distaste Charlie and Devi had held for the Inquisition’s Commander, but right now he was his biggest obstacle. “Even if I wanted to let you through, it wouldn’t make a difference.” Cullen rubs his temple, sitting forward and resting his weight on the shoddy guards’ table. “Suri won’t take any visitors; the Iron Bull should’ve told you that.”

 

The Chief had been the one to send Krem down. Said that Krem was the only one who might have a shot at getting through to her. Krem had had his doubts. If Devi hadn’t wanted to talk to the Chief, then she sure wouldn’t change her mind for him. But he isn’t about to let Cullen make that decision for him. Clenching his fists at his sides, he stares the Commander down. “Let me pass, Cullen. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

 

It’s obvious that any fight Cullen had in him has been extinguished, and Krem prays that this exhaustion will work in his favor. Cullen’s jaw clenches, mouth twisting as though he’s just taken a spoonful of something dreadfully bitter. Finally, he exhales, his voice sharp with disdain. “Do as you like, Aclassi. I won’t try to stop you.”

 

Krem nods, face grim as he slowly passes the table and descends into the dungeons. The hall is silent, the faint sound of his footsteps bouncing off the walls and echoing around his ears. He glances into the first cell. _Samson,_ he thinks idly. _Maker, it feels like ages have passed since then._ The journey from Emprise Du Lion had been harsh, made more agonizing by the steely silence of a woman scorned. He had been sure that Charlie hated him then. That he had ruined any shot he had at _any_ relationship with her, all for a snide comment about her closest ally. Looking back, Krem can see how harsh he must’ve sounded. Mouthing off while her only lifeline was off facing death itself to bring peace to Thedas. _But we had come such a long way. We had overcome that mess._ The Red Templar’s eyes follow him down the chamber, and Krem suppresses a shiver as he approaches Devi’s cell.

 

Whatever he had expected, it isn’t this.

 

Devi lies curled on her side, back against the barred door. If he hadn’t noticed the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, he might’ve thought her to be dead. Krem opens his mouth to call her name, but he finds that no words will come out. His throat is full of sand, tears pricking the backs of his eyes as his hands wrap around the bars.

 

 _This is all a misunderstanding_ , he decides. _She’ll pop up with one of those stupid nicknames, tell me that it’s all just an elaborate joke._

 

He waits for what feels like an hour, staring at the huddled shape on the floor and waiting for her to show any signs of life. His heart slams in his ears, the lump in his throat growing and growing until he’s sure that he’ll choke under the weight of his own racing thoughts. “Devi,” he croaks. The sound is faint, but it gives him the strength he so desperately needs. The anger he had been holding off since the Chief had stumbled into his room, his good eye red-rimmed. “Devi, get up.” She doesn’t stir, and he can feel the tears threatening to spill over as he delivers a sharp blow to the cell doors. The noise rattles inside of his head, and he bares his teeth. “Damn it, Devi, _get up!_ ”

 

“Save your breath, boy.”

 

The interruption is unexpected, and it temporarily draws Krem’s ire from the unresponsive prisoner. Samson reclines on the cot inside his cell. It’s almost as though he’s resting after a hearty lunch, but his eyes betray his body’s relaxation. They’re cold, far-away as he stares on with ennui. “She won’t speak to anyone. Not since they brought her in.” His nose wrinkles in disgust, voice dripping with venom, “Couldn’t even beat it out of her.”

 

Krem had heard the rumors. That Devi had gone soft (or rather, _softer_ ) since the Red Templar had been captured and tried. That he had worked some kind of blood magic, brainwashing her into pledging fealty to Corypheus. He had chalked it up to rumor and nothing more. The nurses had even less to do than he did, it was no wonder they so tightly clung to the gossip floating around Skyhold. But Krem knew Devi better than that. She was devious, yes, but in the same impish way that a particularly naughty child was. Stuffing a frog into his smalls was hardly the same as grand treason.

 

But he had never seen Devi like this before, and it only coaxed the whispering doubts in his head to billow into an overwhelming roar. _If you have nothing to hide, why do you look so pathetic? Do you think so little of us? That we’re so undeserving of an explanation?_

 

He thinks of Charlie and his mind goes red with rage. Charlie, her walnut skin warm under his fingertips. The sound of her low, steady voice lulling him to sleep. Creating peace where there was none on that hellish road from the Storm Coast. _And you’ve taken that away. Taken it away, and you don’t even have the decency to defend yourself._ The adrenaline surges through his body as he turns and bolts up the stairs. Cullen glances up wearily when Krem appears in the doorway, his mouth open with the beginning of a smug statement that never comes.

 

“Open the cell.”

 

Krem’s voice is harsh. Almost as harsh as the sound of his own ragged breathing. Cullen blinks at him in confusion, sputtering the beginnings of protest before he charges the table. “Open,” he snarls, “the cell.” His knuckles are white against the tabletop, shoulders heaving as he stares the Commander down.

 

Cullen rises slowly to his feet, producing the key from his hip as they take the steps back down to the cell with all the enthusiasm of a funeral march. If Devi is surprised by the sound of heavy metal scraping against the stone floor, she doesn’t show it. As stagnant as ever when Krem flings open the door and charges inside. He stands over her, his fists clenched tightly and a sharp pain shooting through his chest.

 

He listens to her breath as it echoes softly in the cell. Her eyes are open, staring unseeingly into the wall in front of her. He stares at her face, the deadness of her eyes, the grim line of her mouth. Split lip, black eye, cut cheek. His anger threatens to boil over, splintering in twenty different directions until he can’t quite remember just who he’s supposed to be fighting. “Damn it,” the tears spill down his cheeks. “Damn it, Devi, get up. Get up and look at me.” _How am I supposed to get through this if you don’t look at me?_

 

He knew that losing Charlie would have killed him, but if he had known it’d cost him Devi too, he might’ve just finished the job himself. His hands reach out before he can think to stop himself, fists balling up the thin fabric of her shirt and forcing her up to look at him. “Come on,” he roars. “Face me like a man, you coward!”

 

Something flickers behind her eyes, the dimmest spark in a vast emptiness. Her eyes come to focus on him, and for a moment he feels as though he is truly seeing her for the first time. “Coward,” she rasps. “That’s it. Cowardice.” Krem is horrified to see fat, glistening tears pooling in her eyes; his grip on her tightening as they streak her bruised and bloodied face. Devi hangs her head, her body wracking with sobs. “I can’t face you. I can’t.”

 

His hands loosen just enough for her to shake herself from his grasp, and she lands on the floor with a whimper. Krem watches as she folds into herself, arms wrapped around her shaking body like the wings of a broken bird.

 

The last thing he remembers is Cullen leading him from the dungeons, the sound of the metal door slamming shut echoing in his ears.


	25. Candy Confessions

After Krem leaves, the cells go silent. Bull had dragged him off of her at least an hour ago, but Devi can still feel his hands gripping tight her t-shirt, his breath hot and angry in her face.

 

She finds she no longer has the strength to cry.

 

Her stomach twists, and she rolls onto her back. She can’t quite remember the last time she ate something. Samson had stopped chiding her for ignoring the plates left outside the cell, and by this point the dishes had stopped coming all together. She turns her head, hand groping blindly at her cot until she finds her glasses. Placing them on her face, she sits up and squints out into the darkness of the dungeon. Cullen had taken away her backpack, but not much else. The dagger clenched in her hand had been the most obvious threat, after all. In the chaos, no one had even bothered to check her pockets.

 

Scooching towards closer towards the door, she slips the tools from her back pocket, wondering if she still remembers how to pick locks. By this point, Samson has noticed her doing something other than wallowing, and he returns to his place against the bars of his cell. “Inquisitor,” her mouth twitches down at the title. “What are you doing?”

 

“Making a birthday cake,” she replies dryly, her focus on any indication that she’s hit the right tumbler combination.

 

His response is a grunt, though Devi has learned that those could usually be deciphered for some sort of deeper meaning. Before he can pose a follow-up question, she hears the click, and with a gentle shove she exits the cell. Samson stares at her as though she’s just pulled a live ferret from her jeans. “Have you had those all this time?” He asks finally.

 

Devi ignores him, opening the chest in the corner and retrieving her bag. Shrugging it over her shoulder, she makes her way to his cell, crouching down and examining the lock before setting to work.

 

His voice is an urgent whisper against her ear. “What are you doing, Inquisitor? Are you trying to get both of us killed?”

 

She doesn’t remember him being this high-strung before her departure, but she chalks this up to Charlie’s execution attempt. _Fucked up a perfectly good wise-cracking sidekick, is what she did. Look at him, he’s got anxiety._ “Can you stop breathing in my ear,” she mumbles when she notices he hasn’t moved from his crouched position on the other side of the bars. “I can’t hear anything if you’re huffing and puffing.”

 

Samson holds her eyes as he shuffles back with a scoff, sinking onto his cot. “What do you intend to do?”

 

_That’s a good fucking question. What_ am _I doing?_ The lock opens with a click, and she eases open the cell just enough to slip inside. Taking a seat next to him, she sets the pack down at their feet. “Sharing,” she replies simply.

 

“We’re not leaving?”

 

“Are you an idiot?” Devi doesn’t have to see her face to know there’ll be scarring from her surprise visits from the guards, and she knows she would have to have one hell of a death wish to want to go out in a flurry of beatings. “You think I want to risk getting my teeth kicked in? There’s no point to that. Not with Charlie gone, at least.” She searches the bag’s contents, “I have cookies, chips, candy – you name it.” Devi sits up, producing some crystallized ginger and a single oatmeal cookie. “What d’you want?”

 

Samson takes the ginger absently, setting it down on the empty space beside him. “Inquisitor,” his brow furrows, eyes uncertain. “Why did you do it?”

 

Devi isn’t sure if it’s her eyes – the access to her bifocals allowing her to experience Thedas in HD – but she can’t help but notice the downright Romantic sight of his profile. _Strong brow, Roman nose, square jaw, scowl._ “You know what, Samson, you could be a Romantic Hero if you wanted to.” She chews thoughtfully, “Maybe even Byronic.”

 

The look on his face indicates to her that he has no interest in discussing literary tropes, and he stares her down until she caves. “Fine,” Devi frowns. “What did you say? Why did I do it?”

 

She crumples the cookie wrapper, trying to hide how hard her hands are shaking. She hadn’t thought it would be easy – killing Charlie, that is – but she hadn’t expected it to be this difficult. Though she had psyched herself up as best as she could, “Eye of the Tiger” blaring in her head as she had stormed the platform, there had been no denying that things had been _off_. While the scents and sights of Thedas had been almost too vivid to bear – as though she were truly seeing things for the first time in her life – Charlie had been different. True, she had been there, but there was something washed out about her appearance. As though she were a flickering, muted image of herself.

 

“When I jumped,” she hears herself say, “I never hit the ground. It was almost as though I had just floated off somewhere. Fell through the ground and straight into my bed back home.” She brushes her fingertips along the hole in the knee of her jeans. “That’s why there was no body. I had no body here to begin with.” Her mind drifts to that day on the battlements. The heartbeat that had been nowhere to be found that day was now thundering in her ears as she takes notice of the warmth of Samson’s thigh pressed against hers.

 

Shifting slightly, she secures a safe distance and continues. “Charlie should’ve been the same. Poof,” she wiggles her fingers, “disappearing in a cloud of smoke before anyone could blink. But,” Devi shakes her head.

 

“The light,” Samson finishes.

 

Nothing could have prepared Devi for that. The sight of Charlie’s body going up in a flash like a roman candle, leaving nothing but an electric chill in the air where she had stood. Devi can feel the lump forming in her throat. “Anyway,” she swallows hard. “None of that matters. We’re gonna rot here. Either that or Corypheus’ll fuck everything up, and then we’ll rot here.” She shakes her head, suppressing a shudder and reaching back into her backpack. Pausing to open the bag, she holds it out to Samson like an olive branch. “Oh,” she watches as his nose wrinkles in disgust. “Worms,” she offers by way of explanation.

 

“You think they won’t be back,” he says, eyes staring past her and to the empty stairwell.

 

Devi stretches her legs, making herself cozy as she continues her stress-snacking. “Maybe they will. Two-Strokes looked a little bored now that I stopped hitting back though, so,” she shrugs. “Who cares?”

 

Samson glances at her, his expression unreadable. Finally, he heaves a sigh of defeat and reaches for the bag of ginger. Reclining beside her, he turns his back to the door. Waiting for the end of the world.


	26. Don't Call It a Comeback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a liar and said this chapter would be up two days ago, but here it is!

No one enters the dungeons for weeks. At least he assumes it’s weeks, he has never thought to keep track of time when in captivity. But the Inquisitor assures him that she has a calendar – a garish yellow thing with some sort of anthropomorphic block of cheese on the cover – and that it has been at least three weeks since anyone had bothered to see if they were alive or dead.

 

Samson lies on his side, shivering under his moth-eaten blanket. _Not even a second blanket, do they want us to freeze to death? Maker’s tears, it’s Wintermarch. Unless the Inquisitor’s right, they are just going to let us rot._

 

He hears footsteps and assumes it’s the woman herself. As the draft had gotten more severe, the Inquisitor had made a habit of slipping into his cell, bundled as warmly as she could be before attempting to sap his warmth like some kind of pond leech. Samson can feel eyes on his back. “What, locked yourself out?” He mutters dryly. She had never wasted any time curling up beside him. He isn’t sure what’s changed.

 

The response is a sharp kick to the door, one that rattles around inside his head and sends him jolting upright. His eyes focus on the silhouette on the other side of the door, mouth setting in a grim line. “Hm,” he grunts, folding his arms tightly across his chest. _Can’t say I was expecting this._ “You’re back, are you?”

 

Cowden’s eyes are almost luminescent in the darkness, her hair an untamed cloud of coils around her head. Something within him stirs. _Lyrium_ , he thinks as his eyes drift to her fingertips. Their glow is subtle, but the air crackles with the arcane electricity of a mage still coming into her powers. He cocks a brow, “Come to finish the job?”

 

To his surprise, she opens the door. “Come on,” her voice is sweeter than he remembers. “Everyone’s waiting in the war room.”

 

For a moment he thinks of resisting, even as his tired feet carry him out of his cage. His eyes flick to the Inquisitor’s cell, and his jaw clenches when he sees the door flung open and the room cleared out. Silently, he lowers his head and shuffles behind Cowden through the halls of Skyhold. The halls are empty, the sky outside dark indicating either early morning or late night. _Fitting,_ he thinks idly, _for such a cryptic meeting._

 

“You don’t look surprised to see me, Samson.” Cowden’s tone is amiable, teasing even, as she glances over her shoulder at him.

 

“The Inquisitor came back,” he replies flatly. “Why shouldn’t you?” He eyes her hands warily, the lyrium in her blood singing sweetly in his ears. _I’m far more surprised about the magic._ He wonders how long she had hidden it for, how he hadn’t noticed sooner. _Rutherford must be beside himself_ , he notes with some smug satisfaction. _Taking orders from an apostate._

 

Cowden opens the door to the war room, motioning for him to enter. He slinks inside, glancing around the table. _The inner circle, the advisors – Cowden wasn’t kidding when she said everyone was waiting._ His stomach is in knots as their eyes shift in his direction. _Yes, yes, get a good look. Samson, the pariah. A cautionary tale in the flesh._

 

He averts his eyes, gaze darting around the room until he spots the Inquisitor lost among the shuffle. He can feel the tension in his shoulders loosen as he makes his way towards her, the momentary relief allowing him to forget himself and dare to brush his fingers against her hand in a show of relief at the sight of her. To say that he had grown comfortable with her during their imprisonment would be an understatement. The Inquisitor had long since established herself as a symbol of his redemption, but comradery had blossomed in the darkness of the jail cells. She had become his greatest ally.

 

Her eyes are cast downwards, rimmed by a pair of black half-moons. Though she is draped in a thick blanket – one that, he assumes, has been retrieved from her quarters – her body quivers with a chill he does not attribute to the draft in the room. And he can’t help but clench his jaw when she flinches at the sound of Rutherford’s voice.

 

“Inquisitor,” Rutherford begins slowly. “I’m sure that this experience has been nothing short of harrowing for you, but,” the tension in his voice is palpable. “How is it that you managed to survive? We were all quite sure that Devi had –”

 

“We watched her slice your head clean off, yeah?” An Elf cuts him off. “Not a lot of people come back from that. Not in these parts at least.”

 

“I’m sure, Sera.” Cowden laughs, “It’s complicated, and I don’t think we’re even quite sure what happened. But,” The smile on her face is sweet, her eyes kind and shining in the Inquisitor’s direction. “Devi _saved_ me. Saved all of us,” she adds.

 

The Inquisitor only trembles beside him, her stare hard and focused on her clenched fists in her lap. Samson can hear her teeth grinding together, and he frowns as Cowden addresses her directly.

 

“Devi,” her voice is soft. “Devi, look at me. I’m fine! I’m better than fine!” She holds her hands out, “I’m alive. I’m here and I’m alive,” she finishes breathlessly.

 

“Be that as it may,” Rutherford says. “Would you mind telling us just what is going on? We have been,” he pauses, “unable to get any information.”

 

“What he means to say, Cowden,” Samson hears his voice loud and wrathful in his own ears, “is that no one has been able to beat the information out of the Inquisitor. Not your guards, not your lover, and not your _commander_ ,” he spits this last title venomously, his fingertips biting deeply into his arms as he folds them before he can lash out physically.

 

Rutherford’s response is a snarl. “Mind yourself, Samson. You are still on thin ice.”

 

But Cowden has already rounded the table, her face flooded with concern and her hands shooting out to gently cup the other Inquisitor’s face. “Devi, look at me.” Her eyes harden as they sweep her face, sweeping each scar left in her absence, and her voice is a dangerous whisper when she finally speaks again. “What happened here?”

 

“I didn’t know what to tell them.” The Inquisitor’s lip trembles, her arms reaching out from her shroud to grip Cowden’s jacket tightly. “I couldn’t,” she presses her face into Cowden’s shoulder. “I thought I killed you, I didn’t know what to tell them.” The Inquisitor dissolves into sobs, receding into herself and pulling the blanket tighter around her body as though it might shield her from anymore harm.

 

Cowden’s eyes blaze as she pulls back, her eyes sweeping the room. “Alright,” she says quietly. “Alright. Everybody out,” she points at the door. “Anyone who doesn’t have answers for me about this,” her face creases in frustration. “This mess,” she spits finally, “leave and wait for further instruction. Cullen,” a shower of sparks flies from her fingertips, causing a dark look to cross the commander’s face. “I want names. Names of everyone who was down in those cells. Devi,” a pained look crosses Cowden’s face when the Inquisitor flinches from her touch. “Do you need to see a healer before we start?”

 

Samson thinks about Maddox as he watches the Inquisitor’s lips attempt to round out the shaking syllables of her response. When Maddox had been made tranquil, he too had shrunken into himself. It had unnerved Samson, much as the Inquisitor’s meekness unnerved him now, but something had been different. Maddox’s spirit had been ripped away from him, severed from his being like his connection from the Fade after the ritual had been completed. It was as inhumane as any act could be, but it had been swift. _This_ , his lip pulls back into a snarl as he watches the scene enfolding in front of him. _They just keep beating it out of her._

“I want Samson here.”

 

The statement is soft, spoken just barely above a whisper as Cowden turns her back to accept the records from her ambassador’s hands. All eyes turn in surprise to the Inquisitor, Samson among them. Her gaze is still planted on the hands in her lap, body still trembling beside him. When he meets Cullen’s hardened stare, he finds that he cannot muster up an ounce of arrogance, the anger swelling in his chest leaving no room for anything else. He grunts in response, chest puffing out as he straightens himself in his seat. 

 

He would not let them have their punching bag, no. But he would give them a war dog.


	27. I Put a Spell on You

Charlie has only been back in business for twelve hours, and she is already exhausted. She stands at the head of the war table, staring across it like some headmistress punishing problem students. _God, I wish it were so simple. I’d take gum stuck to desks or dicks drawn on chalkboards over this any day._

 

“Let’s go through this again,” she says slowly through clenched teeth. “Devi stabbed me,” her stomach drops as Devi flinches at the sound of her name. Charlie had barely recognized her when Cassandra had ushered her in. She had heard beforehand from Dorian that she had refused to take visitors, and Charlie had chalked it up to classic Devi stubbornness. But this was not inflexibility. This was something horrible. “Cullen was the first to take her away,” she continues, “and then what? You’re telling me a group of rogue guards did this damage?”

 

“I will admit,” Cullen’s cheeks pinken as he struggles to find his diplomatic phrasing. “When questioning the Inquisitor’s motivations, perhaps my methods were far more _intensive_ than I realized at the time. But,” he puffs out his chest indignantly. “We had just watched her decapitate you, Inquisitor. What would you have us do? Sit her down for tea and polite chit-chat? As your military commander, it is my duty to ensure that threats to the Inquisition and its safety are thoroughly neutralized.”

 

“Is that what you call it?” Samson’s eyes are feral. Dangerous. “Cowden, tell me, does your military training involve restraining your captives before you beat them senseless? From what I remember, you left my hands free during our last encounter, but maybe that’s changed.” His body is rigid, as though he is poised for the strike. “After all, it’s hard to fight back when your hands are black from the lack of circulation. Not that you can see that, mind you, not when your eyes are swollen shut.” He rises, “And Maker knows that you’ve allowed healing in the past. But tell me, Cowden, how can one call for a healer when one’s throat is simply swollen shut from all that screaming?”

 

“ _Enough_ ,” Charlie’s body shakes. With rage, with shock, with disbelief. “Samson,” she glances at him, “please. That’s enough.” All eyes are on her, but Charlie soon realizes that it is her hands that they are looking at.

 

Cullen has the gall to sneer at her, as though she is the one facing judgment here. “When were you going to tell us, Inquisitor? This is quite a nasty shock to pile on, all things considered.”

 

She doesn’t know what had happened. The light that had taken her out of Thedas had sent her hurtling back through the rift, only this time she had felt alive for the very first time in her life. Every cell in her body aflame, blood surging with an energy she had never felt before. “That’s hardly the point here,” she mutters as the door to the war room opens.

 

Bull stands in the doorway with Krem in tow, and he gives Charlie a grim nod before his gaze shifts to Devi. “Killer,” he says softly. Charlie half-expects Devi to leap up, to bound over to him with a grin and a hug like she usually does. But her head never lifts, and Charlie and Bull share another grim look before he exits the room.

 

Krem’s head is bowed as he enters, and Charlie finds that she can’t breathe. This is not how she had pictured their reunion. She had burst through the rift, eager to be swept into his arms and smothered with kisses. She had planned her confession during that long trek to Skyhold, her heart light with the dreamy expectations of a woman in love. However, instead of being scooped up into a loving embrace, Charlie watches as he sinks onto his knees at Devi’s feet.

 

“Devi, I,” his voice wavers. “I never meant to – you know I would never – I’m sorry.”

 

Her own resolve weakens. _Maybe that’s it. We all just need a good cry. Just a big group-hug that’ll wash away any sort of bad blood between us._ But Charlie knows that this is unrealistic. She knows that things like that only happen in early-2000s Disney Channel original movies, and that their troubles were far from over. “I just need to know what happened.” Her voice is hollow in her own hears. “I just need you to tell me what happened after I left.”

 

“He didn’t do anything.”

 

Devi’s voice is listless, the same hollow whisper that had demanded Samson be given a seat at the table, but it startles Charlie nonetheless.

 

“Inquisitor,” Samson says softly as Charlie says her name.

 

Devi’s eyes well with tears, and Charlie feels her heart snapping. She had never seen Devi cry – actually cry – in the years she had known her. Maybe over a battlefield injury, or selfish tears out of frustration, but never like this.

 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over, isn’t it?” She rises shakily to her feet. “You’re back. You said it yourself, Charlie. You’re back, and you’re alive. This is all just,” she gestures around the room. “This is just divisive. Cullen’s right, I was a threat to be neutralized and he did that. Let’s just be done with it.” Her eyes never leave the floor, and she clutches her head. “I need to lie down,” she says finally. “It’s been a long morning. Excuse me.”

 

Charlie watches her back as she leaves the room, not sure she believes what she’s just heard. _It doesn’t matter? Cullen is right? Threat?_

 

“Well then,” Cullen’s tone is laden with satisfaction. “That takes care of that issue. Inquisitor,” he leans forward. “There is still the matter of your newfound _talents_. I think you should see to it that you receive some training. Either from Solas or Dorian or Lady Vivienne. At least until we can secure some more suitable tutors.” He grimaces, “I suppose the apostates are also an option. But I would prefer if you seek aid from a more trustworthy –”

 

She slams her fist against the table, a deafening crack erupting from the air around her and leaving a scorched hole somewhere between Orlais and Nevarra. Charlie sees no faces, no sparks, no reconciliation in sight. Her world is red in front of her eyes, burning the back of her throat stronger than any acid. She thinks of the damage done in her absence, thinks of the troubles that had yet to be solved. “If you think you’re off the hook,” she struggles to keep her tone even. “If you think for a moment that I care about anything you have to say to me, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand that there are consequences – that there are people hurting who shouldn’t have been hurt so badly? That you can’t just toss people around like,” the pieces on the map scatter with only a simple thought, “statuettes on a map?” Visions of storms cloud her better judgment, her blood singing with a single desire: retribution.

 

“Inquisitor.”

 

A strong hand wraps around her arm, the rage in her blood halting suddenly before slowly quieting to a lull. Charlie glances down, her eyes following the scorched lines on the war table to where they end just inches from Cullen’s seat. Samson stands over her, his voice firm but not unkind. “That’s enough.” As though she can read his thoughts, he speaks again. “Killing him would fix nothing. The last thing you need is to divide the Inquisition further.” Stepping back, he releases her. “It seems you’ve outgrown your use for me here, Inquisitor. I’ll leave you to it.”

 

Charlie’s body shakes as she sinks into the nearest chair, the exhale trapped in her throat coming out in halting bursts. “Fine,” she rasps. “Fine. Call specialists. I’ll train with Vivienne for now, but know this,” she can’t help but relish in the look of fear that flashes across his face. “You are on very thin ice.”

 

Pushing herself away from the table, she pauses when Krem, slowly rising from the floor, reaches out to her. “Your worship,” he murmurs, his eyes weary.

 

“Not here,” she replies. Taking his hand, she leads him from the war room, more than eager to find somewhere else to hide.


	28. Hit Me, Baby, One More Time

Charlie’s head rests in his lap, one hand tangled in her hair and the other clutching desperately at his hand. Krem isn’t sure how long they’ve been sitting there. After leaving the war room, things had gone by in a blur. Shakily, he had managed to explain himself. It had been done poorly, mainly consisting of stammering his way through paper-thin excuses; but it had been an explanation nonetheless. There had been less screaming than he had predicted, Charlie’s anger made obvious by the crackling energy around them. But as quickly as it had started, the fight was over, leaving them clawing breathlessly at each other when no more words remained.

 

“I’ll talk to her,” Krem brushes a stray curl from her brow. “I’ll fix this. You have bigger things to worry about.”

 

“What are you going to say,” she asks dryly. “Sorry, Devi, but I didn’t think that not killing you was an option? I was doing it for love?” Charlie sits up, leaning back against the wall beside him. “She won’t even look at me, Krem. Last I heard, she hasn’t been spotted in days. She’s not even sleeping in her quarters. Scouts say she’s just been roaming the battlements all night.” His heart clenches at the sight of Charlie’s bloodshot eyes, her face worn from the combined stress of training with the Inquisition mages and looking out for Devi. “I don’t know how to fix this,” she mutters finally, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

 

He wants to lean in. Wants to wrap his arms around her and hold her until all the tension and troubles melt away. Before he can think to do so, his hand rising limply from his lap, they hear the door to the weapons’ shed scraping open, signaling that they are no longer alone. Krem is the first to react. Edging over to the landing, he glances over just enough to look at the floor below. “Samson,” he mouths at Charlie, scooting back over to her side.

 

 _Must be collecting supplies._ Krem thinks as he watches Charlie’s hands twitch in her lap. _Ever since Devi –_ he swallows. _He’s been taking on all the recruit training._  

 

“Inquisitor.” Samson’s voice is low, causing Charlie and Krem to tense up for fear of being discovered. However, the gentle tone that seeps into his voice is enough to indicate that it isn’t Charlie he is talking to. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”  

 

“You won’t stop sending me missives.” She replies flatly. “You’ve even figured out how to use Cole against me. All night just, ‘Too silent. A pack of miserable children. We need our Genlock.’ Do you know how hard that is to ignore?” Krem can hear a shadow of her former bravado lost somewhere in the wispy tones of her voice, and the sound makes him sick to his stomach.

 

Samson’s response is a barking laugh, a jarring sound that causes Krem and Charlie to share a look of mild shock. “The boy gets the job done,” he says as amiably as someone like him can. “Here,” he pauses. “Give it one more go, hm? Show the men what they’ve been missing.”

 

Devi mutters something, earning another laugh from the Templar before the sound of the door scraping the floor signals her exit. A moment passes, Charlie and Krem waiting for the sound of Samson’s heavy footsteps to head outside to the training fields. Instead, they hear him clear his throat, the ladder to the loft quaking as he kicks it sharply. “When you two are finished, you might join us.” His footsteps are slow, moving deliberately to the door. “You might learn something.”

 

With that, he leaves the room, the door slamming behind him. Krem turns his head, his eyes searching Charlie’s face for any sort of reaction. “Your worship,” he says, the honorific slipping from his lips before he can think. When she doesn’t flinch, he tries again. “Love,” he begins, “have you spoken to Devi at all? Since that morning?”

 

“No,” Charlie’s voice is strangled, her hands balled tightly in her lap. “No, I’ve just talked at her.” She rubs her temples, voice quivering. “It’s like she’s not even here. Like she’s gone off somewhere far away, only this time I can’t even begin to guess where.” Charlie sniffles, and Krem rubs what he hopes are calming circles into her back. “For the first time,” she starts slowly. “For the first time I feel like I’m somewhere I belong. I feel so, so _good_ , you know? You’re here, you’re here and I can,” she grips his hand. “I can feel you. I can hear your heartbeat and feel how warm your hand is, and I know that all of it is real. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m alive and apart of something.” Her shoulders shake as she presses her hands to her eyes once more. “But how can I feel this way when I know something’s wrong with her? You heard her down there, Krem. She sounds like a zombie.”

 

Krem reaches out, drawing Charlie into his chest and tucking her head under his chin. “You’re not hurting Devi by being happy, your worship.” He pulls her back just enough to hold her face in his hands, wiping the tears from her face. “The last thing Devi would want is hate yourself for being happy. And,” the sound of combat taking place outside grabs their attention. “Who knows, maybe a little sparring is just what she needs right now.” Krem stands, offering Charlie his hand. “With her friend to cheer her on, of course.”

 

Charlie pauses to wipe her eyes on the inside of her shirt before accepting his outstretched hand. “Well I can’t go outside looking like I’ve just been sobbing.”

 

They part only to climb down the ladder, joining hands once more and making their way out to the training field. The recruits stand in a loose circle, and Krem and Charlie gently prod their way into the fray. “What’s going on here?”

 

“Genlock’s back,” a boy replies simply, his eyes shining.

 

Krem follows his eyes to the center of the circle where Devi and Samson stand face to face. He almost doesn’t recognize her, her face scarred and a hardened look in her eyes. “Where’s your maul?” He calls out, his eyes planted on the two daggers clenched tightly in her hands.

 

“Too heavy,” she deadpans, her mouth set into a grim expression he hadn’t thought her capable of.

 

“Come now, Genlock, we don’t have all evening.” Samson gestures with the shield in his hand. “Let’s see what you and the boy have been working on.”

 

A hesitant look crosses her face, her grip only tightening around the blades in her hands. Charlie’s concern is palpable next to him, and finally she calls out. “Alright Samson, maybe this is a little sudden. Devi, do you –”

 

She’s cut off by one of the fresher-faced recruits next to her. “You can do it, your worship! Kick his teeth in!” The boy recoils bashfully as Charlie turns to look at him, and a flush unrelated to exertion creeps across his face. “Not that your input isn’t valid, Inquisitor, but,” he gazes back to the field. “We’ve been waiting for her to come back for so long,” he explains.  “Before all that business with the execution, there were a few of us who really learned something from her. Way back when it was her and the Commander. When Samson came back,” he stops suddenly, his mouth twisting as he turns back to the duo out on the field. “It’s just nice to get back to normal.”

 

 _Normal. Now there’s a word for it._ Krem watches as Devi’s jaw sets, and with surprising speed she charges. “I never thought she’d be so light on her feet,” he mutters to Charlie as Devi manages to dodge the first string of attacks. _Especially for someone so heavy-handed._

 

Though it is she who made the first attack, there is something wrong with Devi’s strategy; and it doesn’t take Krem too long to pinpoint it. He hears himself grunt, and it earns him a questioning look from Charlie at his side. “What’s up?” She frowns, “I think she’s doing pretty well.”

 

Krem shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “She’s doing well, it’s just,” he hesitates. When Charlie probes him, he returns her frown tenfold. “It’s just – have you ever seen Devi fight anyone without hurling herself headfirst into them?” He is reminded of countless training exercises carried out with the Chief; ones that had left him battered and bruised, his breath heaving from drying to dodge her string of nonstop offenses. _But this is unheard of. Devi on the defensive?_  

 

Samson charges as they turn their focus back to the match, and Krem’s eyes find the opening just as Devi’s do. For a moment he thinks she’s cinched it, that her guarded maneuvers were simply another show of the brilliance she was prone to exhibiting on the battlefield. But just she prepares to claim her victory, Devi’s body freezes, her face draining just as Samson’s shield connects with her skull and sends her flying.


	29. A Bitter Pill

“The way you pushed me in there, I thought her head was cracked like a Frumentum pumpkin.” Dorian clicks his tongue, one immaculately-groomed eyebrow lifting saucily. “Really, interrupting my afternoon chess game for a little bump on the head? If you wanted to see me so badly, Samson, you could’ve just asked.”

 

Samson flushes, his arms folded tightly across his chest. It was true that he may have exaggerated the extents of the Inquisitor’s injuries to rouse Dorian from his chess game with Rutherford, but what other choice did he have? Pavus was one of the few members of the inner circle whose gaze was one of curiosity, as opposed to outright scorn. This curiosity had manifested in the form of a daily interrogation masked as a chess game, one that had given Samson a social outlet outside of the Inquisitor. Though he knew the Elf had a better reputation for healing, Dorian was the mage who Samson knew would aid him without question.

 

“How is she,” he asks tightly.

 

Though Dorian had been summoned to treat the blow from the shield, the sigh he heaves tells Samson he understands the thinly-veiled meaning of his question. “I haven’t seen her quite this bad since the Fade.” He says finally, mimicking the Templar’s cross-armed stance. “And Maker knows how that well that turned out.”

 

Samson recalls the sight of the Inquisitor flying from the battlements and shudders. “So, what do we do?” He frowns, “Can you do something? You’re a mage, aren’t you?”

 

“Oh yes,” Dorian’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Why don’t I wave my little fingers and magic her depression away? Perhaps you’d like me to announce my dealings with Corypheus as well? Although,” he pauses. “That seemed to work out fine for you.”

 

“Dorian,” Samson rubs his eyes wearily. He can’t help but feel responsible. The Inquisitor had given no indication that she was ready to take up the blade, but he had refused to accept it. Why should he? From the moment she had struck him down, he had only known her to be a capable warrior. A fearsome sparring partner. A force to be reckoned with. So he had pushed. He had pushed notes, invitations to observe training sessions, demands for sparring bouts. He had even managed to track down Cole, and Andraste knew how difficult that had been (though he had learned, with some digging, that the boy was prone to frequenting the ward in which the Inquisitor had tucked Maddox away. Another discovery he had not thought to ready himself for).

 

The mage’s response is a hand on his shoulder. “Chin up, Raleigh,” he says. “She’s a scrappy little thing, that one. I’m sure this will all blow over soon.” With that, he turns and heads down the hall, only pausing to glance over his shoulder. “Although, perhaps we should consider keeping her _away_ from any high ledges.”

 

Samson snorts mirthlessly, though he knows Dorian is only half-joking. Turning, he lifts his hand to knock before deciding against it and entering the room. The Inquisitor lies on her side, her back to the door and her eyes planted firmly on the wall. He suppresses another shudder, his mind straying to the time spent attempting to rouse her from the floor of her cell.

 

“Inquisitor,” he begins, his heart racing when she rolls over to look at him. “I,” he sinks into the chair next to the bed. She stares at him unblinking, her eyes dark and far away. Samson feels his resolve crumble, the apology dying in his throat as he sits forward. “Devi, what happened?”

 

It is the first time he’s used her name, the sound the sweetest temptation in his mouth. Something flickers behind her eyes, but before he can completely register it, it vanishes behind the depths. She does answer him, her jaw clenching and unclenching as she slowly sits up. Finally, she speaks, her voice colder than he has ever heard it. “From what I recall,” she says icily. “You dragged me onto the field and cracked me over the head. End of story.”

 

“You had an opening.” The anger boils up in his chest, though at who he isn’t certain. “You saw it, I _know_ you saw it. You could’ve blocked me.”

 

He watches as she toys with her fingers, clasping her hands together so tightly he’s sure she’ll break. “You have no idea,” she says quietly, her eyes planted on her lap. “You have no idea what it’s like. To see those eyes everywhere you look. Lifeless, dull, lolling back inside of her skull.” Her hands quiver, and he gets the sense that she is no longer speaking to him. “How do you expect me to do it? To pick up a dagger after what I did. I see her eyes. I see them every single time I try to sleep. Those dead, dull, accusing eyes. You,” she glares at him. “You think you can fix things? Think that just because I threw you a bone, you know how to fix me?” Her eyes narrow. “You can’t fix anything.

 

“Maddox told me, you know. He told me that you tried to do good by mages in Kirkwall. That that’s what got you kicked out of the Order to begin with. You couldn’t do shit as a Templar, and you sure as hell couldn’t do shit under Corypheus.” Her body quakes, chest heaving as her breathing grows more and more erratic. “What did you think, Samson? That he would fix Maddox? That you’d be a hero?” She laughs, a harsh, ugly sound that grates on his eardrums and chills his blood. “You’re a joke. A washed up old man who can’t do anything but fuck things up for everyone around him. You think you can fix me? You can’t even fix yourself.”

 

Samson hears the blood pounding in his ears, his mouth dry as he watches the Inquisitor fall back into the pillows and turn her back on him once more. “Get out,” she spits, drawing the blankets over her head.

 

Rising slowly to his feet, he makes his way to the door, pushing past Cowden as he shambles down the hall. It is only when he reaches his quarters does he realize how hard he is shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devi: お前はもう死んでいる  
> Samson: 何？！


	30. Breaking Things Into Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written a timeline for the fic that will (probs) be updated as we go on! Check it out: http://corypheus-crystal-dick.tumblr.com/post/168716614191/of-templars-and-travelers-timeline

For all her faults, Devi is exceptionally good at breaking things. It had been her only failsafe in a life marked by competition. As a child prodigy, she hadn’t exactly been drowning in friendship. The connections she had managed to cultivate outside of the loving embrace of her parents were largely superficial, cutthroat acquaintances out for her research funding. So she had learned to shatter these fragile bonds, to destroy them before they could destroy her. It was all in self-preservation, wasn’t it? After all, who would look out better for her than herself?

 

Another sob claws at her throat, the noise muffled against the pillow clutched tightly to her face. Breaking things had always been her failsafe, but she can’t quite remember the last time it had hurt so badly. Devi tells herself its self-preservation. That a resourceful man like Samson would understand the need to cut off needless emotional ties. That this is how she had always suspected things would end up eventually. Because it was true, wasn’t it? The Inquisition was a political stage, and a mighty bloody one at that. She was always thinking ten steps ahead; that’s what she had told him on the day he had been conscripted, hadn’t she? From the moment she had seen him, the fire in his eyes, the dogged refusal to be beaten down; Devi had known that Raleigh Samson would be a political asset. _And he had served his purpose. He was training the recruits, wasn’t he? And he told us all he knew about Corypheus._ His use was simply at its limit, and there was no need for any further ties.

 

_“Devi, what happened?”_

 

But the sound of her name on his lips had been completely unexpected. His face, stripped of its signature scowl, had softened, stripping her defenses and leaving her sick with indecision. It was an indecision she was familiar with. One that had prevented her from abandoning Charlie after completing the gauntlet. One that had stopped her from cutting her losses the moment she had awoken back at home. An indecision that had made her soft, weak in the eyes of her intellectual peers; a kindheartedness fostered by her parents but resented by the nasty ambition tucked deep within her heart.

 

So, she had let go. She had thrown away any hopes at redemption, giving herself up to the deafening whisper in the back of her head until she had relieved herself of any sort of accountability. She had given herself up to the intoxication felt when stepping onto the training field, her troubled mind bathed briefly in the warm glow of admiration from her subordinates. _That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?_ The voice had whispered dangerously. _You’ve always resented Charlie for all that attention. Always the lackey, never the Inquisitor._ The sight of Charlie cheering on the sidelines had almost killed her. _You wanted her dead. Wanted her gone so you could take the glory all for yourself._ Samson’s attack leaving just enough space for her to strike, her attention dissolving completely as his face had twisted into a grim reminder of her greatest sin. Charlie’s eyes, dull and dead, two clouded marbles rolling back in her skull as her mouth dropped open in an accusatory shriek.

_“You did this!”_ She seemed to shriek. _“You’ve been out for yourself this entire time!”_

 

Her hands shake, a voice crying out from somewhere within her for help. _Enough of your sniveling_. The thought is silenced with a bark, the command from inside of her own head causing her body to tense and her teeth to grind together. _Out for myself, who else should I look out for?_

 

“Devi!”

 

She turns her head, staring coldly at the figure charging over to her. Krem is looking better from their last encounter, a youthful glow coloring his face ever since Charlie had returned. It might’ve made her happy at some point, relieved even. But now the sight makes her sick, and she barely resists the urge to spit at his feet.

 

“I thought it was you,” he says breathlessly, smile wide and plastic on his face. “Listen, the Chief and I were wondering if you’d like to join us for a little training. You know,” he smiles shyly at her, “just like old times.”

 

“Old times,” she repeats, the sound of her rasp causing him to flinch. A smile spreads across her face, one as cold and angry as the wind whipping past their heads. Her lips crack, her teeth bared in an animalistic snarl as she advances. “What do you mean old times, Krem? Do you mean before your visit to the dungeons?” She feels no satisfaction at the look of pain that flashes across his face, nor does she relish in the way he shrinks away from her. “Tell me, Krem, will I have the opportunity to scream in your face this time? Maybe we should take a trip down to the cells, and I’ll gladly pummel you until the Iron Bull needs to step in. After all,” her lips curls, “fair is fair.”

 

Before he can react, the Iron Bull is upon them, his tone full of the cheerful ignorance Devi had come to expect from him. “Well don’t hog her all to yourself, Krem de la Crème. What d’you say, Killer? You in for a good time?”

 

“Oh, I’d love that,” she gushes sarcastically. “What defines a ‘good time,’ Bull? Maybe we can call in someone to kill the Chargers while you watch from the sidelines. Or maybe you have some other life-changing decisions that need third-party deliberation? Who knows, Krem, your _Chief_ might even let them finish the job this time!”

 

Devi feels her stomach churning, the sight of the Bull’s pitying look sending a nasty pain rushing to the very core of her chest. “Fuck off,” she mutters, turning and trudging towards the battlements. “I don’t need any of you. I’ll train on my own.”

 

Something inside of her splinters as she climbs the steps to the battlements, something sickly that relishes at the sight of frightened scouts falling over themselves to clear a path, something that had been festering inside of her heart from the moment she set foot in Thedas.

 

“Inquisitor!”

 

She turns her head to see Cullen striding over to her from the doorway to his office. When her scowl does nothing to drive him away, she settles for a stony glare. “What,” she mutters.

 

“I thought you might be interested in these.” He hands her a stack of paper, “Updates on training. Both here at Skyhold and in the field.” When she asks what she’s supposed to do with these, he smiles, leaning against the wall of the battlements.

 

From over his shoulder, Devi can see Samson through the open doorway to the Commander’s office. The tears she has spent the day fighting off tangle in her throat, and she unsuccessfully tries to swallow the lump as she forces her eyes to remain on the man in front of her.

 

Cullen is still talking, his mouth tilted into a smug grin that stretches the pink scar on his lip. “I heard what happened with Samson,” he says. Devi hates the way he leans into her, his voice a conspiratorial whine against her ear. “I know we’ve had our differences, Devi, but I can’t say that I expected this from you. I’m,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I must say, you’ve impressed me. Now I know you’ve been taking some time with your training, but I think that a few one-on-one sessions,” he’s slipped back into his normal condescension, but even she cannot ignore the flush creeping up his neck. “We’ll have you up and fighting, good as new.”

 

She opens her mouth to fight, to tell him just where he can stick his one-on-one training sessions. To unmask him as the opportunistic snake he is, a rat looking out for himself before anyone else. _But that’s you, isn’t it._ The realization wraps its gnarled fingers around her throat, that damned whisper the sweetest danger in her ears. _You’re one and the same, and lord knows you still have so much more to learn._

 

Wearily, she hangs her head, offering Cullen a vaguely committal answer before slinking away. Devi glances out over the Frostbacks, a particularly strong gust of air stinging her face and bringing hot tears to her eyes. Staring out from the crumbling battlements, she feels her heart continue to splinter in her chest. Her skill for destruction could be applied to everything and anything, but as she grips the crumbling stone before her and howls, she realizes that it would always be her own heart that she knew how to break best.  


	31. Ace in the Hole

It takes a brave man to stand up to his enemies. Krem had learned this during his travels. Had seen it firsthand when the Chief had sacrificed his own eye for a boy on the run. But in addition to lessons of sacrifice, he had also learned that it took a braver man to ask for help.

 

“You need to do something about Devi.”

 

A part of him can’t help but feel bashful. Sitting there, squeezed between Samson and the Chief, Charlie staring them down from the opposite side of the desk; it all felt very childish. But in just one short week, Devi had managed to cut her way through most of the Inquisition, answering any and all confrontations with harsh jabs at their individual weaknesses. No one had been able to stop crying long enough to even get close to looking at her clearly, let alone actually getting their points across.

 

“At first I thought it was kinda sexy, you know?” Bull shakes his head, causing Samson to grunt and shove the Qunari’s impending horn out of the way. “I mean, I’ve never been one for humiliation; but something about seeing Killer like that got me goin’ at first. But then she just kept talking, and –”

 

“Stop,” Charlie sits forward, rubbing her temples. “Forever stop telling me what you’re telling me.” Dragging her hands down her face, she continues. “What makes you think I haven’t tried to talk to her? Ever since I got back I’ve tried to talk to her, but it’s like she turns into some kind of ninja. Running and jumping all over the place when I try to get close.”

 

Krem wants to ask what a ninja is, but he refrains. “I know where you could find her,” he offers instead. “Somewhere you could catch her off-guard.” When Charlie looks at him, he gestures to Samson with a jerk of his thumb. “Samson told me that she’s down at the training fields every night. After there’s no one out but the guards.” He scratches his cheek, his heart fluttering at the sight of the grin that slowly spreads across her face. “Maybe we could ambush her.”

 

“All of us?” Bull cocks a brow. “You don’t think she’ll take off running?”

 

Charlie rubs her lower lip, her eyes glowing. “No, it’s good. We’ll have strength in numbers. I mean,” she snaps, a shower of sparks leaving her fingertips. “Think about it, from what it sounds like she’s taking on the bitchy-middle-school-girl approach; cornering you when you’re alone and then just tearing you to shreds. But if all of us roll up,” she leans back in her chair, a look of triumph on her face. “We’ll give her nowhere to run.”

 

Warmth pools in his chest, and Krem knows it’s adoration. Maker, he could kiss her right there and then. Before anyone can get too swept up in their emotions, Samson speaks, sobering them up before they’ve gotten a chance to imbibe.

 

“I’m not going.”

 

Charlie’s eyes snap to him, brows knitting together. “Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me, Cowden.” He folds his arms stoically across his chest, eyes narrowing. “I won’t go.”

 

In the short time Krem had known the man outside of that night in the dungeons, Krem had come to understand that Samson was as obstinate as the woman who had given him his redemption; and he couldn’t say that he was completely surprised with this turn of events. Krem turns his head, expecting Charlie to fight him. After all, next to Charlie, Samson was one of Devi’s closest confidants. And though Krem would never tell her this, he suspected that the man might’ve usurped Charlie’s seat following the pair’s imprisonment.

 

However, instead of protesting, Charlie flicks a hand dismissively. “Fine, have it your way,” she says flippantly. “Bull and Krem, you’ll flank her, and I’ll charge from the front. Viv’s been teaching me some ice-related spells, and I’m not above turning Devi into a snow cone if it’ll work in our favor.”

 

From his side, Samson glowers at her, and Krem prepares himself to step in should things escalate. “So what,” he barks. “You’re planning on just attacking her again? Isn’t that what got us into this mess to begin with?”

 

“Wow, for someone who doesn’t want any part of this, you sure are interrupting a lot.” She returns his glower with a look bordering on disinterest. “And nice to see you’ve managed to drop the ‘Inquisitor’ so quickly.” She clicks her tongue. “Really, Samson, I thought we were past that.” When he only repeats that attacking Devi won’t do any good, she sighs. “Fine, what’s your big idea, hm? Everyone sit around and do nothing?”

 

"My plan, Inquisitor," he sits back. "My plan is to let the Inquisitor grieve. To overcome this in her own time." Samson rubs his forehead, and for a moment Charlie thinks he looks quite old. "You can't take her healing into your hands."

 

* * *

 

Charlie hates to admit that he has a point, hates to think that maybe she wouldn't be able to tear Devi from whatever darkness she was sinking into. "That doesn't mean I can't try," she hears herself say. Quirking a brow, she looks at him. "You can join us, or you can sulk. It's up to you."

 

They seem to sit there locked in a stalemate for hours. By the time he relents, it's time for the group to head down to the training fields. Skyhold is silent save for the rhythmic hollow twang of a bowstring releasing, followed by the sound of one arrow after another hitting a target. in the darkness, Charlie can barely make out Devi standing by the archers' targets, silhouetted by a string of floating lanterns hanging over the target wall.

 

"Alright, Boss, what's our plan here?" Bull's voice is husky against her ear.

 

Charlie swats his face away. "We're just going to talk to her, Bull. No tricks, no beatings," she glances at Samson. "We're just going to talk."

 

Devi doesn't turn, not even when Krem calls out for her. She lets another arrow sail, glancing over her shoulder as it hits the center of the target. "What do you want?" She asks coolly, pulling another arrow from her back.

 

"Devi, we're worried about you." Though Krem sounds heartfelt, Devi only scoffs in response.

 

Bull steps forward, "C'mon, Killer. This isn't you. You're just feeling a little guilty for - f"

 

"If anyone should feel guilty, it's you, isn't it?" Devi turns around, the lantern light casting grotesque shadows across her face. Her eyes find Charlie in the darkness, lip curling into a snarl that stretches the scars crisscrossing on her mouth. "What's the matter, boys?" Her eyes narrow. "Can't fight your own battles? Need mommy to fight your battles for you?"

 

"Devi, that's enough."

 

Charlie's heart constricts as Devi's hardened eyes snap onto her, scarred lips twisting into a wry smile. "And here she is," she says dryly. "You're looking well, Charles. Complete control over the Inquisition certainly agrees with you."

 

"I said that's enough, Devi." Charlie barely recognizes the woman standing in front of her. Devi’s eyes are wild, feral and completely unlike those warm bright eyes that had always shone with an optimism that Charlie had always though to be terribly infectious.

 

She wants to cry, her hands trembling at her sides. She can barely keep her fists clenched, her fingers raw from an entire day of trying to navigate her way through working to control her magic. Charlie had never thought that magic could even exist, the idea that she herself would be able to wield it never even a blip on her radar. But when she had found out, had burst from the rift with her hands glowing and her blood singing in her veins, Charlie had truly felt reborn. She had been reborn, and there was no one she had wanted to share it with more than Devi. Though she loved Viv, her lessons were the bleakest cloud overhead, her squabbles with Grand Enchanter Fiona leaving Charlie to awkwardly stand off to the side and listen to a world she felt she would never be apart of. Dorian had tried to be a fun, cheerful presence during her arcane training; but no one could be an ample substitute, and Charlie was left with a gaping hole where her friend should be.

 

“Aw, what’s the matter, Charlie?” Devi’s voice is a nasty saccharine in her ears. “Power isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” She pushes her lip into a pout, voice full of mock-concern. “Is it lonely up there at the top? Your little Kremmy Boy can’t eve–”

 

Charlie closes the space between them in two fluid strides, her hand drawn back behind her head. The sound of the slap echoes through the courtyard, Devi’s eyes widening in shock as her head snaps to the side. “I said,” Charlie’s breath is ragged. “That’s enough.”

 

Devi blinks, her eyebrows furrowing in disbelief. “You,” she glares up at Charlie, nose crinkling as she frowns. “You slapped me! What, you takin’ tips from your pal Cullen?” Charlie’s response is another open-handed slap, prompting Devi to shriek. “Why are you hitting me? Cut it out!” When Charlie only slaps her again, she puts her arms up defensively. “Will you cut that out?”

 

“ _You_ cut it out!” Charlie gives her a shove. “You cut it out! Stop yelling at everyone,” she whacks her on the arm. “Stop pushing away everyone who’s trying to help you. Stop _running_ away from everyone who loves you, because,” Charlie can taste the tears on her lips as her arm shoots out. Devi flinches away, but Charlie grips her shoulder, pulling her in tightly. “Because we love you, no matter how much you try to shut us down.”

 

Devi’s body is rigid in her arms, her arms held tightly at her side. For a moment Charlie’s worried she’s crossed a line, worried that she’s pushed Devi over an edge from which there is no escape. But before she can worry too hard, she feels a tug on the hem of her shirt, the thin material gripped tightly in Devi’s shaking hand. When Charlie pulls back, she sees that she’s crying, tears following the scars in her face.

 

For a moment no one speaks, until finally Devi lets out a wailing sob and hurls herself into Charlie, her head colliding with her sternum. “I wanna come back, Flash!” She blubbers, a gooey mess of tears and snot thoroughly soaking the front of Charlie’s shirt.

 

Charlie sighs in relief, rubbing soothing circles into the other woman’s back as she glances over at her entourage. Even in the dark, she can see their smiles.


	32. Forgive Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get into it, I'd just like to say a big thank you to everyone who's continued to read OTAT. What started out as a joke fic between me and Mossprinx has turned into something truly fantastic; and i only see it getting better from here. Your comments and kudos really inspire me to write about 1,000 more chapters, and I'm eternally grateful   
> (۶ꈨຶꎁꈨຶ )۶ʸᵉᵃʰᵎ
> 
> if you're interested in the AUs and one-shots that i'm working on, hit me up on tumblr (corypheus-crystal-dick) and check out evan's ficlets (ao3: mossprinx, tumblr: ghiblihero). 
> 
> Looking forward to continuing on this wild ride with all of y'all (and happy new year!)   
> (๑♡3♡๑)

He sits in his weekly meeting with Cowden and Rutherford, picking absently at his nails as he covers everything from training updates to field supply requests. Samson pretends not to notice the glance Cowden exchanges with her commander, and he definitely refuses to acknowledge the pair of owlish eyes peering at him through the open door at the opposite end of the room.

 

“You’ll see, Cowden, that I’ve been tasked with attending the ball at the Winter Palace,” Samson taps his finger against the messily-scrawled missive that had been stuffed into his smalls drawer. “But I have no desire to be paraded around Halamshiral like some sort of spectacle. I will stay at Skyhold and see to it that the men don’t slack off in your absence.”

 

Cowden glances down at the sheet of parchment, and the smile playing on her lips causes Samson’s stomach to lurch most unpleasantly. “Gee, Samson,” she begins slowly. “I really wish I could help you.” Her eyes flick up to the doorway where their not-so-stealthy observer has only just managed to dart out of sight. “But you’ll have to take this up with Devi.” She draws his attention to a series of doodles left smudged in the margins of the note. “See, this is from her desk. Not mine.”

 

Samson scowls, his eyes narrowing as he turns just in time to see the Inquisitor scampering down the battlements and out of sight. He hadn’t spoken to the Inquisitor since her little outburst following their last sparring bout, and Maker knows that she had been in no condition to speak to anyone after the Iron Bull had scooped her up from the training fields on the night of their ambush. Come to think of it, Samson had barely seen her after that; though this was not for any concentrated aversion on his part. While in her haze, the Inquisitor had made herself scarce around Skyhold; dodging its denizens or sending them crying after a lengthy rundown of every one of their insecurities. However, in these days of healing, the Inquisitor slowly making her way around the grounds with her head hung in perpetual apology, Samson had noticed that he seemed to be the only one deemed unworthy of a heart to heart. Moreover, he seemed to be too repulsive for the Inquisitor to remain trapped in the same room with him, let alone to engage him in conversation.

 

“Take it up with Devi.” Cowden’s waves her hand dismissively. “She’s not an ogre, Samson. You were perfectly capable of speaking to her before, weren’t you?” Her mouth twitches, a barely-concealed smirk threatening to bubble to the surface. “Before she ripped that shitty lacefront off your head, that is.”

 

He glowers, grinding his teeth and staring her down. However, Cowden doesn’t budge; and Samson is forced to excuse himself from Rutherford’s office and make his way to the Inquisitor’s study. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks, dragging his feet like a child off to be scolded as he takes the long way through Skyhold.

 

It wasn’t as though he wanted to be petty, lagging the way that he was. Since coming to terms with his conscription, Samson had felt nothing but respect for the Inquisitor. He shudders as he pauses outside of the door. The sound of her voice tearing him to shreds still kept him awake most nights, his head filled with her ragged breathing.

 

He should never have called her by her name.

 

Samson had never been one to forget himself. Had never been one to forget where he stood in life. From the time he had been dismissed from the order, left to fester and rot away on the darkened streets of Kirkwall, he had known who he was. While acting on Corypheus’ behalf, he had known where he stood in the grand scheme of the magister’s aims. Though he had been promised the world – had been promised security, had been promised a cure for Maddox and protection for his men who still stood – Samson knew he would have been cut down as swiftly as the Inquisition. That he was simply a pawn between Corypheus and the era of a new god.

 

But the Inquisitor. The inquisitor had allowed him to forget – if only for a moment – who he was and where he had come from. Maker knew it had been bliss while it had lasted, but where did it get him? Right back on the bottom rung where he started.

 

He raps his knuckles against the door, frowning when he receives only silence in response. This would be his luck; to be lured to the Inquisitors’ wing only to be stood up like a fool.

 

“Samson.”

 

He jumps, his heart slamming in his ears as he turns. Maddox looks different from the gaunt boy urging him out of the temple before the Inquisitor’s ambush. His face has lost its pallor, his cheeks full and ruddy. Though his eyes still bear the listless stare of the Tranquil, Samson can’t help but feel that he looks contented (though he chalks part of this up to the persistent guilt he felt whenever he faced the boy).

 

“Maddox,” he frowns. “The poison. I,” he fumbles for his words. When Cole had told him that Maddox yet lived, Samson hadn’t known exactly how to swallow the news. A part of him hated to admit it, but he had hoped that their paths might not cross again. That Maddox would leave Skyhold and the Inquisition behind once he was healed up. He knows it sounds ungrateful, that he owed Maddox his life and more; but the guilt he felt when faced with those eyes threatened to consume him, and his own selfishness begged him to flee.

 

Samson hangs his head in defeat. Perhaps the Inquisitor had been right. The only thing he had ever succeeded at was self-sabotage, and what had he gone and done? He had dragged innocents into his own downward spiral. “I’m sorry,” he feels a tear slip down his cheek. Unsteadily, he grips Maddox’s shoulder, forcing himself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything.”

 

Maddox pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, placing it in Samson’s hand. “Please, Samson, there is no need to be upset.” He watches unflinchingly as Samson draws the cloth across his eyes. “I failed. The poison should have killed me before Inquisitor Cowden arrived, but her healers were too strong.”

 

“Did,” he toys with the handkerchief in his hand. “Did she send you here?” _It would explain why she was acting so coy during our meeting._

 

“No,” Maddox folds his arms. “The Inquisitor would like you to report to the training field. Once the soldiers have retreated to the barracks.”

 

“Another ambush, then.” Samson squeezes the bridge of his nose. “What is Cowden thinking,” he mutters. Was this to be his life now? Intervening in the affairs of others at the behest of the remaining Inquisitor who would give him the time of day? “And where will you go?” He looks at Maddox expectantly. “Now that you’re on your feet.”

 

Maddox stares at him, and Samson feels as though he has been wasting his time feeling sorry for himself. “My place is with you, Samson,” he says finally. “And I will remain by your side until you no longer have use for me. But,” he pauses. For a moment the faintest ghost of a smile appears to tilt his lips. “For now, I have some business to see to in the dungeons. It seems Dagna has found some use for me.”

 

His heart feels heavy, weighed down with a deep ache he recognizes as loneliness. “Might I come with you,” he asks. “I’ve yet to see what she’s done with the armor.” He smiles, “Perhaps we can find out together.”

 

The weight on his heart eases gradually with each step taken down the hall.


	33. Naked

“Um,” the lid of the trunk opens, Dagna’s face appearing above her. “Inquisitor, he’s gone. You can come out now.”

 

Devi can see that Dagna is barely holding back her laughter, the giggles threatening to burst from her mouth as Harritt howls behind her. Devi rises slowly until she is sitting up inside of the trunk, feeling like some kind of budget Dracula who couldn’t afford a coffin. She had come down to the depths of Skyhold to apologize for threatening to choke Harritt with his own shorts during her meltdown, but the sound of Samson’s voice echoing through the stairwell had been enough to wipe hopes of absolution from her mind.

 

She was nothing if not resourceful, and the sight of the open trunk that Harritt kept around for scraps of fabric had seemed preferable to awkwardly excusing herself from the room. But jee-zus, she hadn’t thought he would hang around so long. “Since when is he Mr. Friendly Conversation Guy?” Devi whines as Dagna pulls a scrap of plaidweave from her collar. “I mean _really_ , the _mouth_ on that man.”

 

Dagna giggles, lending Devi a hand as she clambers out of the chest. “It’s not a bad thing, is it?” She cocks her head. “I spent forever researching that armor. When Charlie came back from the shrine, I thought she’d be bringing back something for me to work with – something we could use to destroy him, you know? But,” her eyes sparkle, as they tended to do when talking about her work. “Instead you came back with Corypheus’s right hand himself! And Maddox knows everything there is to know about how it all works!” She shrugs, “I think he’s trying to be helpful because of you, you know? You gave him a chance to right the wrong.

 

“You’ve heard all about the Hero of Ferelden, haven’t you?” When Devi nods, she continues. “When Brosca came back to Orzammar, she helped me get to the Ferelden Circle.” A soft look crosses her face, her eyes somewhere far away. “She told me later that leaving the city had been the best thing that ever happened to her, that the world had opened up in ways that she never thought possible. I think that she wanted me to have the same kind of opportunity.” Dagna’s cheeks are pink as she looks at Devi and shrugs. “I don’t know; I think you remind me of her. I mean,” she squints. “You might not be a Dwarf – at least I don’t think you are – but still. I think you both have a lot of that same sort of pride. And I think you both want to share that pride with other people.”

 

 Devi thinks about this. Thinks about it hard all through dinner, pushing food absently around her plate until the dishes have been cleared and it’s time to head down to the rendezvous point. She drags her feet, wandering through the halls and taking the scenic route down to the courtyard. For a hot minute she thinks she might throw up.

 

When she had devised this plan, she had thought herself quite clever. Or, if not clever, then quite resourceful. To use her powers as Inquisitor to lure him into her apology. To place that wall of separation between them; the social distance that would allow her to clear the mess before she could sabotage herself again. Because a new set of problems had arisen from the Devi Suri Apology Tour of Skyhold. While making the rounds, exchanging tears with the various people she had hurt during her _episode_ , Devi had found it damn near impossible to even _think_ about approaching Samson with the same sort of vulnerability. When the shame of pushing him away in a feeble attempt to protect herself had finally left her system, there had been other complications to deal with. While hearing her name leave his mouth had been…jarring, to say the least; there was no denying that, at the time, it had catapulted her into an anger so intense it had stripped her of any sort of kindness or reason.

 

_But without that anger_.

 

A flush creeps up her neck, her skin burning from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Without that anger, the sound of Samson’s lips curled around her name caused the blood to rush to her head. Caused her heart to slam, her toes to curl, and her thoughts to cloud with thoughts so incendiary they threatened to burn through her skull.

 

_God,_ she groans, slamming a fist against the wall of the battlements _I bet his dick is huge_. Devi shakes her head wildly. _No! I can’t go down there thinking like that._ She breathes deeply, trying to lose the thought in the cool night air of the Frostbacks. Thinking like that would get her nowhere. Thinking like that would send her running to her quarters, just like it had forced her out of her office and to the smithy earlier that day.

 

She shakes herself out; loosening every muscle from her shoulders to the tips of her toes. _You got this, Suri. Just think pride – just like Dagna said._

 

The pep talk is just effective enough to get her down the steps and into the courtyard. Samson stands in front of the training dummies, his hands shoved in his pockets and his back towards the staircase. She feels as though she’s been socked in the stomach, the wind rushing out of her as she stops suddenly at the foot of the steps. _God,_ she watches him from a distance, his face illuminated by lanternlight. _He really is lovely, isn’t he? That whole capital-R-Romantic look. Like a greasy Lord Byron._

“Samson,” she squeaks out.

 

He turns, eyebrows shooting up in mild surprise. “Inquisitor,” he says finally, eyebrow quirking further when she bounds over to him. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

Devi frowns, “But.” _But you got my letter. And Maddox told you to meet me here._ She shakes her head. “That’s not important. What’s important is,” she looks up at him, the thought dying in her head. Samson’s eyes have lost their red-rimmed weariness, the bags and dark circles present, but far less severe. “You,” she squints. “You look different.” She rushes on, “Better different, I mean. Softer.”

 

To her horror, he glances down, mouth tipping up as he pinches his stomach. “I suppose being with the Inquisition has put a little fat on my ribs. Corypheus failed to provide the same robust meal service as your kitchen staff.”

 

Affection surges through her chest, and she almost doubles over at the feeling. _I have to tell him_ , she thinks wildly. _I need to tell him before something else happens._ “Samson, I,” she pauses, swallowing her fear and apprehension and staring desperately into his eyes. “I’m not a proud person,” she says finally. “Pride is something that’s,” she runs her hand through her hair. “It’s foreign to me. I found a plum on the windowsill? And I just ate it.” She gestures vaguely. “I just ate it, Samson. No thought, no impulse control, no nothing. I wasn’t even hungry!” He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off. “Earlier this morning? I blew my nose in a tapestry. In front of the advisors _and_ three delegates from Halamshiral.

 

“But it didn’t matter! I have no shame, no pride – I just don’t _give_ a single-celled fuck about what anyone has to say about me! Except,” her vision blurs as her eyes well with tears. “Except when I think about what _you_ might think about me, I get so nervous I can’t,” she wipes at her eyes. “I can’t breathe, and I feel like I’m eating cake off the floor, but it feels bad, you know? And that’s how I’ve been feeling. Ever since I yelled at you, and since I didn’t apologize. It’s like dirty floor cake with no one to share it with because I –”

 

“Inquisitor,” Samson’s voice is sharp but not unkind as he reaches out for her.

 

Devi’s eyelids flutter, her heart slamming in her chest as she realizes _yes! This is it!_ She can already taste his lips on hers, his battle-scarred hands strong around her hips as he finally claims her for his own, the violins swelling behind them in a romantic crescendo.

 

Instead of kissing her, or ravaging her right there in front of the guards and Andraste and whoever else might be watching, Samson clasps her forearm. It’s the type of brotherly arm-shake-thing she’s seen happen a thousand times; the exchange between two brothers-in-arms in perfect sync on the battlefield. _Not_ the warm embrace of a lover.

 

“Inquisitor,” he says again, eyes blazing. “That’s enough. You don’t have to say anything more.” He must sense her confusion, because he grips her arm reassuringly. “Apology accepted. And,” he offers a rare, non-scowling smile. “I will join you and Cowden at Halamshiral.” When she sputters in response, he pulls back and bows his head. “I am indebted to you, Inquisitor. No matter what, I will remain loyally at your side.”

 

“Huh,” Devi is dumbfounded. Scratching the back of her head, she frowns. “Uh okay,” she nods. “Okay, dismissed. I guess.” She watches, unable to process, as he claps her on the back and saunters out of sight. For a moment she feels naked, both in the vulnerable and literal senses. As though she has stripped herself bare only to be shrouded in misunderstanding.

 

Standing alone, she finally snaps. “What the _fuck_ just happened here,” she wonders aloud, throwing up her hands in a fit of exasperation. Leaving the shredded remains of her confidence behind, she scampers off to the Inquisitors’ wing. Perhaps it was time for a new and improved plan.


	34. I'm Not Happy Till You're Not Happy

If anyone had asked Krem what he felt for the Inquisitor, he would tell them respect. He respected Charlie more than anyone, relished the sight of her standing tall in a room full of her loyal subjects, the image of a powerful and poised diplomat. However, if anyone then asked him what he felt privately – that was to say, after the dignitaries had emptied the great hall and he and Charlie had retreated to her quarters – he would simply smile and excuse himself, the thought of Charlie bound and blindfolded to enticing for him to waste time on petty conversation.

 

He places a kiss on the inside of her thigh, chuckling as she arches her back and whines, her long fingers wrapped around the scarves binding her wrists to the headboard. “In a hurry, your worship?” He teases, nudging her thighs apart. “And here I thought you wanted to take things slowly.”

 

“Krem, _please_ ,” her lidded eyes stare pleadingly back at him through the curtain of her hair. “I wanted things slow, but not this slow.” She hisses, kicking at him when he only continues to trace lazy shapes into her thighs. “I swear to _god_ , Krem, as soon as you untie me, I’ll – _oh_!”

 

Her threat is lost, swallowed in a gasp as he finally puts his mouth to good use. He wastes no time with languid licks, pursing his lips around her clit and sucking just enough to begin her slow climb to the edge. Though they were still working through all the twists and turns of any new intimate relationship, Krem could say he was more than pleased with the learning curve they had established. He had managed to figure out the little things that made her tick. He knew that the nape of her neck was especially sensitive just after getting out of the baths, that she wasn’t ticklish save for the skin on the inside of her thighs, and that should he draw his tongue in just the right shape –

 

“I have been Inquisitor-zo–h my _god!”_

_Should’ve made sure I locked that door_ , he thinks, the sound of Devi’s shrill voice muffled as Charlie’s thighs clamp around his head. Krem manages to free himself as the room dissolves into chaos. Time seems to stand still, everything unfolding slowly as though encased in honey. He stumbles off the bed, watching in horror as Devi turns tail and sprints into the closed door. It would’ve been comical – the speed of her collision causing her to bounce back and land with a dull thud on the ground – if only he hadn’t gotten his legs tangled in his own trousers, one fabric lag snaking around his ankles and sending him clattering face first onto the floor, nose colliding with an unpleasant crunch against the stone. From somewhere far away, he hears Charlie shrieking, the headboard smacking against the wall as she struggles against her restraints.

 

“ _What in Andraste’s name_ –”

 

Two hours later, Krem sits wedged between Charlie and Devi, a compress of frozen Elfroot pressed to his broken nose. Lady Montilyet stares them down, and for a moment Krem is struck with a shameful sense of déjà vu. At her side, Leliana struggles to stifle her laughter, her normally stern mouth quaking with giggles.

 

“Now,” Lady Montilyet rubs her temple. “Would someone please explain what has happened here?”

 

“I was getting ready for our meeting, Josie –”

 

“The Inquisitor’s been so stressed, I thought we could wind down. For the afternoon, and –”

 

“Samson put me in the Inquisitor-zone. Not even the friend-zone Josie! He’s not even –”

 

“Attending the ball at the Winter Palace has a lot of prep work involved, and I just thought Krem and I could –”

 

“Stop Devi before she hurt herself, but she just –”

 

“Saw too much! I saw too much!”

 

Lady Montilyet is silent, her hands folded in front of her face. Finally, she speaks. “Well then,” she hushes Leliana, whose semi-muffled snorts echo through the room of her office. “Inquisitor Cowden, if you have your hands free,” her mouth quirks. “Perhaps you and Devi would like to discuss the arrangements for Halamshiral. And, Krem,” she lifts and eyebrow. “Please make sure you get your nose looked at before anymore,” she pauses, “ _strenuous_ activity.”

 

Krem flushes, laughing off the teasing remark as he gets to his feet. Before he can get out of the room, he feels a small, icy hand clench around his arm. He glances down to see Devi staring up at him, a red welt still on her forehead and her eyebrows set in a deep frown. When she doesn’t speak, he frowns back. “Can I help you?”

 

“I need you to talk to Samson.” When he laughs, she jostles him roughly. “No! No laughing, Mr. Man!” To his horror her eyes well with tears. “Please, Krem, I need you to find out if he’s still angry about the yelling. Or if he’s plotting something. Or maybe,” her lip quivers. “Or maybe even seeing someone. Please,” she shakes him again. “Please, I’m desperate. I’m so,” she shudders, “so desperate.”

 

It unnerves him to see her like this. Stuttering, whiny, blushing as she sends him off like some kind of lovestruck schoolgirl. The thought is so distressing that he tracks Samson down after his appointment with the healer, finding him taking inventory of the training supply shed.

 

_How did this become my job_ , he thinks idly as he leans against the doorframe. _Though,_ he frowns, _if I don’t get Devi her friend back, I might never have sex again._

 

“What do you want, boy?” Samson doesn’t turn from where he stands scribbling notes near the dummies. “Your heavy breathing is distracting from my planning.”

 

“Planning,” Krem puts his hands in his pockets and walks over. “Making a regimen for when you’re at the Winter Palace?” When Samson only hums, he tries to be nonchalant. “Charlie told me that you had decided not to attend the ball.”

 

“Does Cowden usually share information from meetings with her boyfriend,” he replies flatly.

 

Krem’s eyes narrow. It wasn’t as though he hated Samson. At least, he didn’t hold any grudge based on the man’s past. But attempting to befriend the man was like trying to pet a wyvern. A wyvern that was actively spitting poison in your face. While crushing you beneath its feet. Though he had seen first hand Devi’s capacity for bristliness, Krem had understood that this had been the result of pattern of stress and trauma. From what he had seen of Samson, this was simply how the man _was._

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Anyway,” Krem stares him down. _What about you could possibly drive her to such extremes? Devi doesn’t hide from anything, from any_ one _. But you have her cowering at the slightest hint of rejection._ “What’s wrong with you?” He asks finally. Samson raises an eyebrow in response, and this only riles Krem up more. “You sat in that room acting all high and mighty.” He glares, “Like you’re the only one who understands her. Like you’re the only one who knows what she needs.

 

“When Charlie came back? You tore us all apart for what we did to Devi in that cell. You protected her, because you were the only one who knew how.” He gestures angrily at the man in front of him. “Even when we tried to get things back to normal, you had all the answers. Going on and on about how ‘the Inquisitor needs to grieve, I’m not going to beat her down.’ But you’re just full of shit! Don’t you understand? Devi –”

 

Samson steps forward, the motion so sudden that Krem jumps back reflexively. As he draws himself up to his full height, broad chest puffed out, Krem understands – if only for the most fleeting of moments – why Devi may be so enraptured. “I have had _enough_ of being told off by children.” He says, his hardened eyes narrowing coolly. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” Krem opens his mouth to speak, but Samson is faster. “That I didn’t understand the meaning of her summons from the moment she descended the battlements?” His voice is like shattered glass. “Tell me, boy, do you think _love_ is some magical cure-all? That Cowden’s love brought you back from the brink of death? That your love is what returned her to Skyhold?” He folds his arms. “Only a fool would think that some moonlit confession would be able to fix things.”

 

“So that’s it,” his surprise subsides, the anger returning. “You’re just angry that you’ve been scolded? You’re really going to hold that agai–”

 

Samson grabs him by the front of his shirt, his breath angry and hot against Krem’s face. “You hold your tongue,” he snarls. “It is out of respect for that incident that I refuse to hear her out. Do you think it so simple? To play the fool, to, to,” he sputters, releasing Krem and running his hands through his hair in a rare show of obvious frustration. “To see that look, to watch her face crumble,” Samson seems to remember himself, remember that he is not alone in the room. He smooths his hair down, his tone once again cool. “If you need to paint me as the villain, so be it. I know what I am.” He turns his back once more as Krem leaves the shed.

 

Perhaps it would be simpler to just remember to lock the door next time.  

 

 


	35. Never Been Too Good at Change

After his talk with the Bull’s Lieutenant, Samson makes himself scarce around Skyhold. It takes him back to his days in Kirkwall. Nights spent roaming the darkened alleys with his ear to the ground, gathering information that would prove useful to his survival. However, instead of hiding out in Lowtown searching for information against the Order, Samson finds himself fading into the lull of daily life in Skyhold; listening for information on the Inquisitor.

 

Though it was he who had decided to place the distance between them; Samson had not chosen to release her, and he couldn’t say that he had any real intention to do so. They still led training exercises together, still sparred and drafted out notes for the men in the field. Samson continued to notice the gentle slope of her lips and found himself aching to smooth the wrinkle that appeared over her nose whenever she frowned. And he still noticed her eyes lingering on his hands, the way she allowed her thigh to press against his whenever they happened to forget themselves crammed behind the small desk in his quarters.

 

To say he is not good at letting go is an understatement.

 

His first love had been vengeance. He had dedicated most of his adult life to seeking retribution against the Order; reparations for a life wasted huddling in the alleys of Kirkwall while waiting for his next source of easy coin. With that vengeance had come lyrium, just enough to get his fix and keep his addiction going. The little coin he had managed to take from the apostates seeking passage out of the Marches had provided him with just enough lyrium to chase the shakes away. To keep him just numb enough to ignore the world around him if only for a moment. He had though he found a final fixation in lyrium. Corypheus had supplied him with all the Dwarf Dust he could ever need. Enough to storm the Golden City himself, should he have the mind to do so. Death itself would have to pry it from his grasp, no price too steep to pay.

 

Perhaps it was this reliance on Dwarf dust that had gotten him into this mess. For the foolish belief that lyrium was his greatest addiction had damned him to a fate worse than death, an ache far too potent to be cured by the broken kit sitting in his desk drawer.

 

He stands on the battlements, watching the Inquisitors practice ranged attacks in the courtyard below. The news of an artifact in the Hinterlands was due to whisk her away from Skyhold in a week’s time; these preparations, adding to those underway for the ball in Halamshiral, forcing the Inquisitor and Cowden to adjust their scheduled training sessions to the evening. Samson closes his eyes as her laughter floats past his ears, relishing in the sound before it can be lost to the mountain air.

 

Aclassi had called him selfish, had said it was his own pride that kept him from listening to the Inquisitor’s confession. If he had been a truly selfish man, he would’ve wasted no time with flowery words, the romantic prose the Inquisitor was known for in her more _focused_ speeches. Instead he might’ve finally claimed that wicked mouth for his own, might’ve finally put her soft curves to the test under the weight of his hands. He might’ve even taken her against the battlements then and there, regardless of who was present at that time of night.

 

 But he couldn’t blame the boy. Aclassi was young, impulsive, and very obviously in love with Cowden. How could he be faulted for thinking Samson a fool for not acting on those same impulses? The idea of the most powerful woman in Thedas standing vulnerable in front of him – Samson must’ve seemed like a coward for turning his back. And if not cowardly, then at the least incredibly foolish.

 

But while he admired the boy’s openness, he also knew that what the Inquisitor needed was not love. It was not another distraction, or temporary bandage to cover wounds that would not be sent away by some quick-fix healing.

 

What the Inquisitor needed was time, and Samson is prepared to give her whatever time he has left. No matter how much it hurt: how much more noticeable his withdrawal headaches were without the sound of her chirping voice in his ears, how weak he felt without her presence to keep him focused and, how unreadable his missives were without her gentle hand removing the pen from his shaky grasp; he would give her whatever she needed until she could truly feel the strength he knew her to possess.

 

And once she had regained that fire, he would make his move. For while he understood the importance of space to heal, he knew he would not be able to draw away completely. And once the Inquisitor was ready to listen to what he had to say, he knows he would never be able to let her go again.  


	36. Watcher in the Wood

_Devi lines up her shot, face setting into an intense mask of concentration. She can feel Charlie’s eyes on her, and her lips twitch into a smile as she lets her arrow sail. It hits the target dead-center, and Devi shrieks with delight as she turns. “I’m tellin’ ya, Flash, this target works like a dream.” She slings her bow across her back. “Look at that. Got ol’ Two-Strokes right between the peepers.”_

_“Hm,” Cullen hums from Charlie’s other side, visibly displeased. “While it is nice to see you back on your feet, Inquisitor,” his mouth sets into a grim line. “I do wish you would refrain from using my face as a target.”_

_“Tell that to Charlie,” she replies with a shrug. “She’s the one who drew it. I just took the shot.” Devi looks up at her, smiling softly. “Well, I’m off. Solas says there’s some artifact in the Hinterlands that’s worth looking at, and Adrien never got a chance to get to it.” Though she is hesitant to leave – today being yet another in the saga of the Devi Charlie Healing Reunion Tour – she feels hopeful that they’ll do some good. “Wish me luck!”_

That had been over two weeks ago, and now where was she?

 

Devi sneezes, tugging her cloak tighter around her body. What had begun as a search for the Elvhen artifact had turned into a rescue mission in the Exalted Plains had turned into – she squints, _what are we_ doing _here?_

 

Perhaps it was her fear of failure. Maybe even a fear of abandonment. Maybe she had seen herself in Solas’s retreating figure, the sight of him running from his grief a grim sense of déjà vu that she was not willing to come to terms with. Regardless, the two weeks she had given herself for this mission had run out, and she hadn’t yet sent in a missive to Skyhold requesting some overtime. Chasing Solas had gotten them nowhere except lost and stuck somewhere in the Emerald Graves. Devi blames Bull, who had been holding the map and filling her head with the potential for the Great Dragon Hunt of 9:41.

 

 _“Top of the list,”_ he had said, _“the Greater Mistral. Think it’s somewhere up north.”_

 

So, they had looked for it. What was she supposed to do? They were in the Graves anyway, it wouldn’t kill them to look around. After all, she had been in Thedas for going on five years. Plopped down right in the middle of the _dragon_ age. And how many dragons had she actually seen? None (save for a poorly drawn one that Bull had tried to give her for the trouble of their travels). Instead of a dragon, all they found were Red Templars and a metric fuck-ton of spiders. The whole thing had just reminded her of Samson.

 

Devi listens to the sound of Bull’s snoring from inside of his tent. Cole had been by her side up until about an hour ago, but when she had turned her head to speak to him he was gone. She frowns. Though she knew by this point that he was something of a spirit, perfectly capable of evading danger should it cross his path, she finds herself wracked with worry. Maybe it was Solas’s absence, the lack of a clear voice of reason leading her to slowly rise to her feet and wander away from the campsite.

 

 _This is stupid_ , she thinks. _You’re an idiot. You don’t even know which way he went._ Devi jumps at the sound of a particularly loud branch cracking under her feet. _It doesn’t help that you’re a total fraidy cat, you big fraidy cat._

 

She glances over her shoulder, the fire from the campsite growing dimmer and dimmer as she continues into the trees. “Cole,” she half-whispers-half-yelps, drawing her bow from her back. “Cole, where are you?” A metallic tang hits her nostrils, the smell pooling in the back of her throat. _Blood,_ she thinks frantically. _Does Cole bleed?_

 

Her answer reveals itself to her in the form of a vision. He kneels beside bloodied carcass, a small torch in one hand. Devi heaves a sigh of relief as she lowers her bow, unaware that she had been holding her breath. “Cole, what are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you.” Her eyes travel to the grisly sight before them, and she lowers herself to sit beside him. “What happened here?”

 

His fingers are gentle as they lower the bear’s eyelids. “She only wanted to protect them,” he says softly. “But our scouts were too much.”

 

Devi had read that missive, the one detailing the escapades of a particularly nasty great bear wreaking havoc on the Inquisition camp. She had ignored it, passed it off during her episode. “I didn’t know they’d kill them.” Her lip trembles as she notices the unmoving cubs tucked under their mother’s weight, their necks scarlet with blood. Shakily, she reaches for Cole’s hand. “Cole, I think this is my fault,” she mumbles, the tears already flowing down her cheeks. _If I hadn’t been so stupid, maybe I would’ve held off on that hunt. Maybe the scouts wouldn’t have killed Old Scarred Paw. Maybe I would’ve been more prepared to tell him how I felt, and maybe he wouldn’t have shrugged me off the way he had._

 

“She only wanted to protect them,” he repeats. It may be her imagination, but Devi is sure she feels him squeeze her hand back. They sit there only long enough for Devi to dry her eyes, dusting themselves off and turning to head back to camp. Before they can get very far, a twig snaps underfoot – though, under _whose_ foot, Devi isn’t certain. She turns her head towards the sound, taking the torch from Cole’s hand and shining it down the path.

 

From under the bush stumbles redemption, and the thought is almost light enough to fill her with hope once more.


	37. Commander Two-Strokes and the Lyrium Factory

Charlie had sent Devi off with a kiss and a promise to make more Cullen-themed target covers a little over two weeks ago. While waiting for her return, she had busied herself with meetings with diplomats and arrangements for the ball; yet she still could not shake the tinge of worry that sat like a pit in the depths of her stomach. It wasn’t as though she had thought Devi incapable, but the scouts had sent word that Solas had left the Exalted Plains sans the Inquisitor or her party. No one could blame her for worrying, especially considering that this had been the first extended absence she had taken since the drama that had transpired in Skyhold these last few months.

 

Cullen had been less patient. Sending for reports the moment the allotted two weeks had expired. “Devi should’ve been back days ago,” he says tightly, his fingers drumming against the desk. “What’s taking so long?”

 

Charlie examines her fingernails, wondering if there will be an opportunity for a manicure before the Winter Palace. “You said the guards spotted her on the bridge,” she says casually. “You’ve waited this long, what’s a few more minutes?”

 

In the last few weeks, she had noticed a stark transformation in her commander’s personality. Though he was typically curt and business-oriented, Charlie had still found it somewhat charming in a no-nonsense busybody sort of way. A charm that, had you not been on the sour-end of it, might’ve been somewhat endearing. But lately, Cullen’s charm had seemingly run out, leaving him rude and irritable. She squints at him, her eyes sweeping over his face as he dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief. _Come to think of it, he looks a little sick._

 

“What’s wrong with you?” When Cullen eyes her wearily, his eyes bloodshot, she frowns. “You look different. Worse.”

 

“Thank you for your concern, Inquisitor,” he spits. “But we should wait for Devi to arrive.”

As though on cue – and Charlie is not entirely sure that it is not on cue – the door swings open, revealing Devi on the other side with something resembling a baby Björn strapped to her chest. “It’s Devi,” she declares. “Inquisitor Suri if you’re nasty.” Cackling to herself, she bounces into the room. “Sorry to be tardy to the party, y’all, but I’m a mama now.”

 

“Oh?” Charlie leans forward. “What is that? It looks like a giant maggot.”

 

Devi kicks at her, hugging the bundle tighter to her chest. “He’s a great bear cub, Charles. Even the adults don’t have a whole lot of hair.” Gently, she waves one of its paws in Charlie’s direction. “Hello, Charlie! I like peeing on maps of the Graves because I don’t want to go back!”

 

Charlie squeals as the cloth reveals the bear cub’s chubby face and half-lidded eyes. True to Devi’s word, he is mostly hairless save for a coarse black tuft between his large ears; his skin black and spotted with tan patches. She coos, leaning forward to brush his stomach. “Stop, he’s so _cute._ What’s his name?”

 

“I think his full name is Mr. Peanut Butter, but I’m gonna call him –”

 

They are startled by the sound of Cullen’s fist slamming against his desk, and when Charlie glances over she sees him glowering in her direction. “I didn’t request a meeting to listen to you two prattle on,” he seethes. “I have very important business to discuss, and I won’t be shut out from discussing it.”

 

“Super Chunk,” Devi finishes slowly.

 

Charlie’s eyes narrow, the new energy in her blood lifting from a hum to a dangerous song in her veins. She is about to reply, to put him back in his place even, when Devi holds up a hand to calm her down. “You’re right, Cullen,” she says, her eyes not leaving Charlie’s. “Tell us whatever it is you need to.”

 

She feels her anger dissipate, her blood completely cooled by a wave of confusion. It wasn’t as though her co-Inquisitor had a reputation for being a level-headed voice of reason. That was usually Charlie’s job. If there was anything Devi was known for, it was for being hot-headed. But when she looks closer, she notices the strange grin on her face, her wary stare betraying the goofy slant of her grin.

 

If Cullen notices the edge behind her smile, he says nothing. “Well then,” his eyes are angry slits. “It has been difficult to get the two of you together in the same room, but this is a matter I think needs to be addressed.” He leans forward, his hands folded in front of his face as he places his elbows on the desk. “Especially considering your new _talents_.”

 

Magic, as she had learned first-hand these last few weeks, was not the exciting fantasy sold to children here in Thedas. Instead, she had gained something akin to a poison stinger or venom sack; one that had placed a wedge between her and some of her closest confidants in the Inquisition. That wasn’t to say that she and Cullen were _close_ , but – she lifts a brow at his look of disgust. _God, he doesn’t know who to hate more, does he?_

“Has Lady Vivienne discussed the dangers of magic with you?” His mouth twitches downward, and Charlie notices the beads of sweat have worked themselves back onto his forehead. “Had Cadash not aided the mages at Redcliffe, you might’ve gotten a few lessons from the Templars.” When Charlie asks him what lessons he had in mind, he pushes away abruptly from the desk. “Hah!” Cullen runs his hand furiously through his hair as he approaches the window. “The things I’ve seen,” he mutters. “You couldn’t understand. Not what I’ve seen, what I’ve lived through.” His mouth is a thin line, eyes hard and far away. “What they did to me – those _abominations_ – I was a boy. A foolish boy full of puppy love for a mage, of all things. And I watched as she and all the others turned to monsters right before my eyes.

 

“Watched as they shed their masks and exposed themselves for what they really were. Meredith,” he shakes his head. “Meredith might’ve been a zealot, but she knew better than all of us what magic was capable of. Gregor, Maker spare him, had seen his family destroyed by magic. An apostate father and sister, mother killed by blood magic.”

 

“You’re,” Charlie swallows hard when he turns to her. She had never considered herself to be close to the Inquisition’s commander. If anything, she had been forced to learn to tolerate him, or at least ignore him. And though there were times she had disliked him, she couldn’t say that she had ever felt –

 

If looks could kill, she might’ve been obliterated on the spot. It is as he steps away from the window, his movements a jerking show of aggression, that Charlie recognizes the twisting in her guts as fear. “What is it that you need from us, Cullen?” She asks carefully. Her mouth is dry, and she tries to hide the frightened tremble of her legs by crossing them underneath her.

 

“By now you both have familiarized yourself with lyrium and its uses, yes?” Charlie doesn’t miss the cold look tossed in Devi’s direction before he continues. “Leaving the Chantry allowed me to stop taking lyrium, to return to a normal life.” He grimaces, “So to speak. But I am just as dedicated to the Inquisition as I was to the Order. That is why,” he pauses as though he isn’t quite sure how to continue. “That is why I spoke to Cassandra about finding a new commander. However, with all the chaos that has been going on, our search – _my_ search – was unable to find any headway. Therefore, I’ve concluded that I will remain at the head of the Inquisition’s forces with,” he leans against the desk. “One request.”

 

“What is it?” Charlie finds she cannot lift her voice past a whisper. _What does he want us to do? To get rid of the mages? To, to what? To oust me and give me handler?_

“I would like your permission to begin taking lyrium again.”

 

The request hangs in the air. Charlie doesn’t breathe, for fear that even the slightest sound of an exhale might cause Cullen to snap. _Lyrium helps the Templars keep magic in check, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s his end-goal after all. Maybe it has nothing to do with duty, maybe it’s just paranoia. I mean, I might be paranoid, but this, this is paranoia._

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Devi’s voice is quiet, but it causes Charlie to jump nonetheless. For a moment she’s afraid she might find the same sullen, cranky Devi from the last few months. But instead she finds her petting the sleeping bear, still wearing the wary expression she had begun the conversation with.

 

Cullen’s jaw clenches, and Charlie realizes that he hadn’t really been asking for Devi’s opinion to begin with. “With all due respect, _Inquisitor_ ,” the way he sneers her title, Charlie has to look twice to make sure it isn’t Samson. “But I hardly think that you are in any position to speak objectively on this subject.”

 

“You asked for the both of us, Cullen.” She replies calmly, “Asked for our permission. And I’m telling you that under no circumstances are you to begin taking lyrium again.” Devi stands, adjusting the swaddle on her shoulder. “End of discussion,” she says as she turns to leave.

 

“But you’ll turn a blind eye for the traitor, will you?” Cullen glares at her back, his features pulling into a snarl that twists the boyish features of his face. “Perhaps I too should betray the people of Thedas for a little lyrium, _Inquisitor_. That seems to be what earns your respect around here.”

 

Charlie can see every muscle in Devi’s body tense, watching as her fist curls at her side as she turns. “I think you should rethink that.” Though she tries, Charlie can see her resolve ebbing away as her hand curls into a fist at her side.

 

“Tell me, Inquisitor,” he pushes on. “How long have you known about this?” Cullen produces a ratty-looking box from his pocket. “I knew something was missing from his possessions once you gave him that ‘probationary’ period.” He shakes it, “Tell me, did you prepare a welcome gift from the supply secured for the mages? Or did old Raleigh still have some left over from Corypheus.” He flings the kit to the floor where it splinters at her feet.

 

“It was already broken,” Devi’s whole body quakes as she tries and fails to keep her voice level. “A reminder. He’s been off lyrium since we captured him. You,” she speaks through clenched teeth. “You claim to love the Order. To love the Chantry and what it does. But what I see is a broken system that breeds addicts and throws them out into the cold once they’ve served their purpose. And for what?” Her eyes narrow, and Charlie bets that, had she not been wearing glasses, he might’ve been killed by her stare alone. “So that golden boys like you can pick and choose who is worthy of redemption. So you can continue to make the same mistakes that he did?”

 

Cullen is silent, his eyes darting around inside of his head as though struggling to keep up with his thoughts. Charlie recognizes the look in his eyes. It’s one of desperation, one that means that danger is coming. “I paid no mind to the rumors, Devi, but it appears they _are_ true. Tell me,” his voice is quiet, accusatory. “Is it blood magic? Or perhaps he’s threatened you with a different type of blade.”

 

This is the final straw, and Charlie can feel the air around Devi crackle as she lunges forward. The movement is so sudden that Charlie doesn’t think to remind her of the cub strapped to her chest until she feels the wriggling bundle placed swiftly into her lap, Devi tackling Cullen to the ground before anyone has a second to think.

 

The lyrium warms her blood, but she can’t find the focus to bring the magic to her fingertips. Frozen in her seat, she watches the two exchange blows and does the next best thing she can think of.

 

She screams for help.


	38. Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights

Krem doesn’t know how he does it. His eyes focused, his hand firm against his back, his thigh snaking fluidly through his legs as he lowers him into an effortless dip. Somehow, as though part of some cruel joke, the Maker had given Samson the ability to dance.

 

And now Samson was passing it along to him.

 

What had begun as a means of distracting the man from the news that Devi had once again been pummeled by everyone’s favorite commander, had soon turned into preparations for the Winter Palace. _Maker, what_ isn’t _in preparation for the Winter Palace these days_ , Krem thinks idly. The whole trip to Halamshiral had whipped Skyhold into a frenzy. Between the Inquisitors’ etiquette and culture lessons to the preparations for the week long (“ _not_ including travel time,” Lady Montilyet had been sure to remind them) absence, it was safe to say that things were something of a mess.

 

Krem was not immune from that mess.

 

He winces, the sight of Samson’s downturned mouth more painful than any blow to the skull. “Sorry,” he mutters, glancing down to see that he has once again stomped on his toes. “It’s these steps. I’m so focused counting that I –”

 

“And when some Orlesian dandy cuts in and sweeps Cowden off her feet, who will you apologize to?” Samson changes the position of their hands, taking back the lead. “It’s a simple waltz, boy, even you should be able figure it out.”

 

It was true that Krem had grown increasingly worried – or perhaps worried wasn’t the right word. Perhaps he was more jealous than worried. Of course, with the etiquette and the dance lessons and whatever else Charlie and Devi got up to in Lady Montilyet’s study, there had come the threat of suitors. Krem hadn’t been surprised. She was the Inquisitor after all – the most recognizable of the Inquisitors. He himself had joked about the smitten diplomats who left the Great Hall nightly. _But it isn’t like I_ want _her to be with someone else._ Krem focuses his attention back on Samson.

 

He still doesn’t quite understand how the man got so good at dancing. From what he had seen, he wasn’t one to flock to the Herald’s Rest after a hard day’s work. Even following his initiation into the daily lull of Skyhold, he chose to spend his evenings making training plans with Devi. After their spat, he had seemed to find comfort in roaming the battlements rather than at the bottom of a cold pint. Devi had been petrified at the idea of Samson being involved with anyone else; an idea that had Krem doubled over and heaving with laughter for a good fifteen minutes before she had tried to jostle the image out of him. The man was, after all, a pariah. And even once you got past the aiding the Blight debacle, he was downright _difficult._

 

 _And yet_.

 

Krem frowns deeply, his eyes sweeping over Samson’s broad shoulders, the firmness of his chest against his own as they continue their steps. His hands, though rough and calloused, are surprisingly gentle, and even Krem cannot pretend not to see the patience with which he teaches his bumbling student (regardless of any barked commands). For a moment he recaptures that a-ha moment; thinking, as he had on the night of their argument, _so this is what Devi sees in you._

 

But as before it lasts only a moment, the thought cut short by Samson’s harsh laugh and wolfish grin. “Falling in love with me, are you, boy?”

 

He gives him a sour look, but Samson’s only response is another barking laugh before giving Krem a twirl. “Just think,” he continues. “Soon you’ll have Cowden under the same spell. You’ll lead her out onto the dance floor, draw her close _without_ stepping on her feet. The nobles with talk.” His eyes glaze, and though he is staring right at him, Krem suspects that it is no longer him who Samson is speaking to. “Everyone talks, they have nothing better to do. But when you’re with her, you won’t hear a word of it. The world silent,” he lifts a hand, drawing his thumb softly across Krem’s cheek. “Still as it always is whenever you’re together. And when she looks at you as you’re staring at me now,” gracefully, Samson lowers him into another dip, eyes focused as he smirks. “That is when you’ll know you have her.”

 

Krem sputters, his face heating up as he demands to be set up right. _Maker forbid anyone see me in such a state with –_

 

“We seem to be interrupting something.”

 

Krem’s neck almost snaps as he struggles in Samson’s grasp, horrified to see Charlie standing in the doorway of the training shed. “Your worship! Love! It’s not what it looks like.” He tries to pull away, but Samson’s hands grip him tighter. “We were just – what in Andraste’s name is wrong with you, Samson? Let me _go_.”

 

He glances up, expecting to find the man still wearing his smug look of triumph. Instead, he finds him staring past Krem’s head, a hardened look in his eyes. Krem follows his gaze, turning his head back to Charlie where he notices Devi standing sheepishly at her side. “Hello, Samson,” she mumbles, her eyes planted on the floor.

 

It had been a few days since the fight with Cullen, and Krem had been so busy with his distraction-duty-slash-dance-lesson that he hadn’t gotten a good look at her since the scrap. _Maker, Charlie said it was bad. But this –_

“Who did this,” Samson’s voice is deadly quiet as he all but shoves Krem to the floor and stalks over to her. Fluidly, he cups Devi’s face, inspecting the damage as one might inspect a fine gemstone. “Tell me,” he says softly. “Who did this?”

 

Krem watches Devi fidget, the first signs of tears already in her eyes. It was no secret that since returning to Skyhold, Devi had developed a quickness to tears that was almost comical – sobbing at everything from touching notes from those helped in her travels to being caught sneaking bread from the kitchens – but the sight of her threatening to fall to pieces in Samson’s hands is almost too intimate a sight to bear.

 

“I fell,” she squeaks, trying and failing to pull away from his grasp.

 

“You fell,” he repeats. Devi hisses as he gently places pressure on the large puce splotch over her eye and cheek. “How many times did you fall? I suppose the stone also split your lip and,” he tilts her head and exposes the finger-shaped marks on her neck, “wrung you by the throat.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Samson releases her, turning his angry stare on Charlie. For a moment Krem thinks he might yell, might accuse Charlie of letting this happen. Instead, he speaks but a word. “Cowden,” the sound of her name laden in demand for answers.

 

Krem tenses, springing to his feet and preparing to step in. Considering their past, there was no doubt that Samson and Charlie had fallen into something not-quite-but-beginning-to-resemble friendship. But the once-light atmosphere in the room had darkened, and there was no denying that anger could break even the strongest of restraints should Samson let it.

 

Charlie grimaces, glancing at Devi before she steps forward. Krem can’t hear what Charlie mumbles to him, her hand light on Samson’s arm as she speaks softly into his bent ear. As the older man’s eyes go wide, his face contorting into a mask of fury as he charges from the room, Krem knows that there will be no more dancing for quite some time.

 

 


	39. Strange Mercy

Samson had never found anything that he wouldn’t cut down for a chance at survival. There was no life worth more than his own, no human weakness worth letting his guard down over. Everything he had ever done was in the name of scraping by, the refusal to be forced back to the Maker’s side. Anything else just one more obstacle between himself and his very existence.

 

_So why,_ he wonders as he charges the gardens, _am I letting myself go?_

 

He spots Rutherford playing chess in his usual spot, laughing with Dorian without a care in the world. _This is retribution, nothing more,_ he reasons as he strides over. _Nothing has changed, I’m simply showing my worth. My dedication to the Inquisitor’s safety. This is survival._ But survival cannot explain the rage boiling in his chest, the sight of her bruises throwing him back into the dungeons. Nights spent helplessly listening to her whimpers echoing off the stone walls.

 

_It’s a matter of loyalty_. By showing loyalty, he would build back her confidence, sacrificing his own trivial feelings so that she may return to her former glory. But as he stands over Rutherford – imagining just how hard he would’ve had to squeeze Devi’s neck to leave such bruises – he no longer sees ties of loyalty or self-preservation. All he sees is red as his hands shoot out, grabbing Rutherford by the front of his shirt and jerking him out of the chair.

 

“What in Andraste’s name do you think you’re doing?” Rutherford’s eyes are wide with panic, and he pushes Samson back once he manages to find his footing. “Have you finally gone mad?”

 

“What did you do to her,” he speaks through clenched teeth, his breath harsh and ragged inside of his ears. Samson flexes his hands at his sides, his self-control ebbing away with every second he finds himself forced to stare into the smug face in front of him.

 

At the sound of his question, Rutherford’s face slips into a brief look of understanding; one that is soon replaced by a cool stare. “Oh,” he says finally. “So, you’re here about that.” Straightening his shirt, he returns to his seat, glancing down at the chess board in disinterest. “It took you long enough, Samson. That happened days ago.” When Dorian, visibly confused, asks for clarification; Rutherford waves a hand dismissively. “The Inquisitor and I got into a scuffle during a disagreement, nothing more. Samson here is just putting on a show.” His eyes flick up to meet his. “After all, he knows where his bread is buttered.”

 

Samson can feel her skin under his fingertips, the tremble that had run through her when he had demanded answers. “Get up.” He says finally. Rutherford ignores himself, his mouth quirking as he asks Dorian whose turn it is. He notices the beads of sweat on his forehead, the sickly paleness of his skin. It is a sallowness he recognizes from shaky glances at his own reflection, but it is no excuse. “ _Get up_ ,” he repeats.

 

“Come now, Raleigh,” Dorian places a hand on his forearm – an attempt to calm him just as Cowden had only moments before. “I’m sure that Cullen and Devi have worked out their squabble and returned to that charming back-and-forth we love so much.”

 

“It wasn’t a squabble, Dorian,” he says tightly. “It was senseless.” Samson’s eyes never leave Rutherford, the fury boiling further within him as he mentally catalogues each wound. “First, you knocked her down, probably got her good on the side of the face. Split her lip, so it’d be too painful to talk back. You thought that would shut her up, but,” Samson had noticed the cuts on her knuckles. “This time she fought back. She tried to get you off, so you wrapped your hands around her throat.” Samson glances down into Dorian’s horrified face. “Does that sound like a squabble to you?”

 

“Cullen,” the name leaves the mage’s lips in a sigh. “Cullen, you didn’t.”

 

“So what, Samson,” Cullen stares up at him, his voice terse. “What are you here for? Payback? Something to show Devi you are indeed worthy of following her around like a wounded mabari?” He gestures vaguely. “Go ahead. Take your revenge. Show the people of Skyhold what you truly are.”

 

His body tenses, stomach souring as he glances around. The commotion had drawn the attention of everyone in the gardens, perhaps drawing out those who had heard his voice from inside the foyer.

_“_ _I have no shame, no pride – I just don’t _give_ a single-celled fuck about what anyone has to say about me! Except, except when I think about what  _you_ might think about me.”_

Devi’s voice echoes inside of his head. In that moment he understands it all. The feverish tone of her ramble, the stomach-churning analogy of eating cake off the floor. Because despite the stares, the sight of frightened nobles whispering to one another behind their hands, Samson thinks that he might snap Rutherford’s neck right there, no matter what anyone else had to say. Shame meant nothing, respect meant nothing. For he was a man fueled only by rage and love.

 

“A duel,” he says finally. When Rutherford only repeats him flatly, he nods. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re hoping for. You want me to tear your throat out right here, to make me out to be a savage. A traitor. Well,” his lip curls into a snarl. “I refuse to play into your game of appearances. You and I will duel. Tomorrow morning.” He narrows his eyes, “And then they shall see who the real savage is.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You do realize your boyfriend is going to murder Cullen in front of everyone, yes?” Dorian raises a brow at her. “And you do know that this will make it damn near impossible for us to find a replacement commander.”

 

Devi’s voice is high and panicked inside of her own ears. “Shut up! No one’s murdering anyone.” She watches as Samson stands on the training field, his Kirkwall shield on his back and a wooden sword in his hand. “They’re using the training swords like Charlie told them too, at least. That should help with some of the more fatal injuries, shouldn’t it? And,” she turns to glare at him. “He isn’t my boyfriend!”

 

“I don’t know, Killer.” Bull nods in Cullen’s direction. “Cullen’s been cruising for a fight with Samson since he got here. They don’t look like a little wooden sword is gonna stop them.”

 

“Yeah, Cully-Wully’s got all that pent-up anger,” Sera chimes in. “But Samson’s hopped up on love, innit?” She reaches out to pinch Devi’s cheek. “Can’t bear to see the thought of his _widdle Quizzy_ all purple and teary-eyed.” She cackles as Devi swats at her. “Deny it all you want, yeah? But you can’t hide it from us. Legs told us all about what happened before he went looking for a fight in the gardens.”

 

She opens her mouth to defend herself, to defend Samson from whatever they’re implying, but Cole beats her to it. “Soft lips split, tainted by the same scar he bears. He won’t ever lay a hand on her again.”

 

The blood rushes to her face, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as the gang around her howls. “Shut up,” she manages to sputter. “Shut up, that could mean anything!” Devi turns to see Charlie and Krem making their way over, walking hand in hand. “Charles, do something! Tell them that this has nothing to do with me!”

 

“Oh come on,” to her horror Charlie grins. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this. I mean,” she gestures at Samson. “How chivalrous is that? Fighting for his lady’s honor. Just like a real knight.” She laughs as Devi pounds weakly on her arms, “Too flustered to put some muscle into it?”

 

The laughter of her companions (and her flustered protests) are soon lost in the gradual hush that falls over the crowd. Cullen descends the battlements slowly, as though he thinks himself to be a villain worthy of a dramatic entrance. He lifts a wooden sword from the training rack, Templar shield already in hand. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.

 

The look of disinterest plastered on his face is almost enough to send Devi charging out onto the field herself. Though it had long since been established that she and Cullen had a relationship that was less than cordial, Devi had never thought that she would be driven to physically fight the man. Even when he had delivered his _enhanced_ interrogation tactics following Charlie’s not-quite-a-murder, she had been so deeply consumed by guilt that she hadn’t bothered to fight him off. She had returned his insults, his condescension with snark and nothing more. But –

 

Cullen is the first to lunge forward, his face contorted into the same hateful mask he had worn as he had wrapped his fingers around her throat. Devi’s fingers stray to the slow-fading blotches on her neck, suddenly finding it very hard to breathe.

 

_“Or perhaps he’s threatened you with a different type of blade?”_

 

That had been the last straw. She had forced herself to calmly counter his accusations of lyrium abuse; after all, Cullen had spread word of Samson’s addictions from the moment they had focused their efforts on capturing him. It only made sense that the members of the Inquisition would take his word at face value – what reason would they have to doubt him? But Devi had – much like those who had bothered to put in the effort – learned differently. She had taken the time to understand just how the Chantry put its resources into breeding addicts with anti-magic rhetoric and religious dogma. She had taken over exercises when his headaches had prevented him from standing in the sun for too long, had pushed through her own unreadable handwriting when his hands shook too hard to grasp his quill.

 

But to imply – to even suggest that she might’ve been acting on threat of sexual violence. She thinks of Samson, his face softened by the dim light of the lanterns on the battlements. She hadn’t been able to sit by and listen any longer.

 

* * *

 

 

From the moment he had stepped out onto the mountain peak overlooking Haven, Samson had assumed his final battle with Rutherford would have been one that pride had wrought. Corypheus had known just which buttons to press, to highlight on his dismissal from the Order, Rutherford’s ascension as both Templar and Inquisition Commander. Though it now embarrassed him to admit, he had viewed Rutherford from a place of envy. As what he might’ve been able to aspire to, given some opportunity.

 

But now, staring the younger man down, he realizes that he had been very foolish indeed. Rutherford lunges forward with a swing of his sword, cursing as Samson deflects the blow and knocks him back with his shield. He looks weak, the clammy paleness of his skin accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. Samson assumes that Rutherford had only agreed to the fight because he had assumed it would be easy. He hadn’t taken into consideration the toll that withdrawal was taking on his body, and he certainly hadn’t considered that Samson might’ve come prepared to win. There is desperation in his eyes. Not the desperation of a man determined to win despite the costs, but rather one who cannot fathom the thought of loss.

 

He lunges forward before Rutherford can take the time to compose himself. Samson’s shield collides with his wrist, knocking the sword from Rutherford’s hand and sending it clattering to the ground. Rutherford grunts, his eyes wild as watches Samson kick the blade out of the way. Though they both know it’s pointless, he scrambles for it; his grabbing-hands coming up with little else than fistfuls of dirt before Samson knocks him onto his back with a single kick to the chest.

 

Rutherford lies flat on his back, his stare to the Maker. Samson stares down at him, pressing the dull tip of the sword to his throat. For the first time, he looks at Rutherford and sees, not a privileged rival, but a frightened child in a man’s armor. And for a moment, he is filled with an overwhelming sense of pity.

 

“You lose,” he says finally, lifting the sword and tossing it carelessly to the side.

 

Samson returns his shield to his back, turning and seeking out the one face in the crowd he needs to see. His ears are deaf to the cheer of his men around him, some of his more _affectionate_ trainees flanking him with embraces and hearty claps on the back. His sees Devi bawling in Dorian’s embrace, her hands a blur as she joins in the applause of her companions.

 

His heart, for the first time he can recall, is light; free of any weighted guilt or grief. Samson grins, prepares himself to brave the fray, to capture his Inquisitor and perhaps claim his reward. However, the smile dies on his face as he hears Rutherford’s sneer. One last hurled insult in the heat of public embarrassment.

 

“Next time, tell your bitch to keep her hands to herself.”

 

It’s true that he had found Rutherford to be incredibly pitiful. That he had tried to offer him as much mercy as someone like him was capable of doling out. But in this moment, as he closes the distance between them in a matter of steps, all notions of sympathy evaporate. His hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of Rutherford’s hair and pulling his head down as he jerks his leg up. His knee connects with Rutherford’s nose with a satisfying crunch, the younger man falling to the ground and writhing in pain, his hands clutching his face.

 

Samson turns, stalking off towards the crowd. Though Rutherford may not have appreciated it, there were other places where his brand of mercy was bound to be accepted. And it was time to put it to good use.


	40. As Long as I Got You

“Is there something _off_ about Devi to you?”

 

Even Josephine can’t hide her amusement as she whispers to Charlie, hiding their conspiratorial glances through the clever placement of the meeting docket. From their position in the doorway, they watch as Devi fiddles absently with a figurine on the map. To the unsuspecting eye, it might look as though she were in deep though, planning out the upcoming assault, so to speak, on the Winter Palace. Anyone who had been in the War Room with Devi would know, however, that the rowdy Inquisitor was rarely allowed anywhere near the map, for fear that she would give into impulse and clear the table with a single sweep of her hand.

 

But standing there, bewildered expression on her face, Devi places the piece gently back into place; heaving a sigh and wandering over to the window.

 

“Do you think,” Josie begins again. “Do you think it might have something to do with Samson?”

 

The question isn’t really a question. Charlie had noticed, in the days following the fight, that Skyhold had split up into a number of factions. Well, Josie called them factions. She called them fan-clubs. It was kind of nice, actually. The presence of rabid dedication in Skyhold reminding her of her internet days back home. But as with any fandom, there came theory and speculation. This mainly in the form of romance.

 

“If my sources are correct,” she begins slowly. “Nothing’s happened since the fight. I mean, she talked to him after, sure, but,” Charlie shakes her head. “It’s been over a week. If nothing’s happened, it sure isn’t going to start now. It just – it hurts to see her like this.” Stepping deeper into the room, she smiles. “Devi! You’re here early. Have you been waiting long?”

 

“Hm?” She glances over from the window, her eyes glassy. “Oh, Charlie, I didn’t hear you come in. Are we starting soon?”

 

Charlie bites back the urge to question her, but god, is it difficult. She knows that Devi must be hurting. Anyone would be broken up by unrequited love, sure, but this felt different. Though her connection with Samson was, at times, hard to understand; it was there, and it ran deep enough for anyone and everyone to see. To think that nothing had come out of all that fanfare, the public displays of devotion – it was a lot to take in with no detail.

 

“Inquisitors.”

 

Charlie and Devi are soon joined by Josie, Leliana, and Cassandra; trailing behind them a face that had made itself scarce around Skyhold following his display of public embarrassment. The air in the room is tense, the other advisors exchanging nervous glances between Devi and Cullen as they wait for someone to speak.

 

Charlie’s body tenses. Since their meeting – the catalyst behind the events of the last week – she had found it damn near impossible to occupy the same space as the commander. It wasn’t so much the fight with Devi, though that was certainly a part of it. But with the dust somewhat settled on that matter, Charlie’s aversion had continued out of fear. A fear of Cullen and everything he stood for. A fear that had her lying awake at night, body weary from the hours of arcane training and study, fearing for her personal safety should she find herself unable to control her powers. Perhaps it’s a continued fear of victimization. One bred out of the angry white masks turned her way from childhood, many of them sitting at the steering wheel of a cop car. But Charlie knows it’s real. It’s real and it prevents her from returning Cullen’s stare, no matter how brave she would like to act.

 

To her surprise, Cullen sinks onto one knee in front of them, his stare pointed at the floor at their feet. “I believe I owe you – both of you – an apology. Though it is no excuse, my judgement was impeded by my hasty decision; and my behavior this last week has been incredibly out of line.” He licks his lips. Anyone else might’ve interpreted it as nerves, but Charlie only sees a snake out to ensure his place is still secure. “I do hope you will allow me to return to my duties. Pending, of course, continued rehabilitation.”

 

Charlie looks to Devi, expecting some kind of snappy response. But Devi only stares off over Cullen’s head, the dazed look never leaving her face. With some effort, she meets Charlie’s eye, brows furrowing slightly. From the corner of her eye, Charlie can see the smirk threatening to break Cullen’s look of remorse. _He knows he’s won. That we have no intention or plan to replace him._ “We’ll get back to you,” she says, surprising even herself. “You must understand,” Charlie slips into her diplomat voice, relishing at the way it sounds echoing through the war room. “What happened out on the field last week does not look good. Our commander getting so worked up over, what, a little dissent from the Inquisitor?” Her eyes narrow, her tone taking on something like condescension. “I mean, with our departure to the Winter Palace so close – you know how those nobles in the foyer talk, Cullen. I’ve no doubt that word has spread.”

 

“The Inquisitor makes a fair point.” Leliana’s wispy voice enters the conversation before Cullen has a chance to voice his displeasure. “No matter what the background behind it, what happened last week can only hurt us in the Game. We must take extra care to save face, even if it’s only a temporary solution.”

 

Charlie stares down at Cullen, her lips curling into a smile as his eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he mutters.

 

But Charlie ignores it, grinning widely as Devi turns to give her a puzzled look. “You know what, Leli?” She nods her hand, her hands on her hips. “I think I’ve found us the perfect fix.”

* * *

 

“I won’t do it, Cowden. Find somebody else.”

 

Charlie glares at Samson’s back, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. “Why not,” she whines. “Don’t you wanna show him how much better you are? To show everyone just how good you can be?” When he turns her down with a simple quirk of his brow, she throws up her hands in frustration. “ _God_ , you are the _worst_! No wonder Devi didn’t want to come down and talk to you. You’re impossible!” She folds her arms. “Wait, wait,” her eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me that you won’t do it because things are awkward between you two. I can’t keep things running if you keep hiding from each other like lovesick children!”

 

Samson laughs, the sound causing Charlie to flinch. “Is that what you think?” He shakes his head, face slipping back into its expressionless mask. “Forgive my saying, Cowden, but I don’t care _who_ is heading those little war meetings you hold. I have no desire to play puppet advisor because Rutherford doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”

 

“That’s the thing!” She inches closer, drawing herself up to her full height. She notices his eyes flick down out of habit before he realizes that she more than meets his eyeline. “You won’t just be some puppet for Cullen to control behind the scenes. It’ll be like a partnership. Like,” she can see his eyes glazing over, his attention slowly ebbing away. Quickly, she tries to think of how Devi would phrase it. Maybe that would get her somewhere. “Think about it, Raleigh – may I call you Raleigh? – you’ll be the Inquisition’s shadow commander. Doesn’t that sound rad as hell?”

 

His eyes narrow, and for a moment Charlie fears that she’s been found out. Instead, Samson gives her something that is neither scowl nor smile, folding his arms as he nods. “Fine,” he says curtly. “I’ll think about it.” When she reminds him that the departure date for Halamshiral is in less than a week’s time, he shoots her a sour look. “I’ll think about it,” he repeats.

 

Charlie watches him leave the garden, not realizing she’s been holding her breath until she lets it go. As she sinks onto a nearby bench, focusing on deep breathing and hoping to whatever Maker or God watching that something good might’ve come out of this, she fails to notice the approaching footsteps until they stop right in front of her. Scrambling to sit up straight, she switches back into diplomat mode, plastic smile on her face. “Yes, what can I assist you with today?”

 

“Oof,” Krem places a hand to his chest. “You can promise me you’ll never talk to me like that ever again.” She blinks, groaning as Krem laughs and sits down next to her, his arm slipping around her waist and drawing her close. “How are you, love?” He mumbles into her hair, pressing a kiss to the side of her temple. “Long day?”

 

“You have no idea,” she mumbles, resting her head against his shoulder. For the first time all day, Charlie allows the tension to flee her body. Every muscle relaxing as Krem takes her hand and draws his thumb across her knuckles. Her eyes flutter shut, mind drifting as she allows herself to float away on the tranquil seas of his even breath. Everything falls away. The ball, the impending doom of Corypheus, the absolute stubbornness of Raleigh Samson. It all melts into a quick-drying puddle at her feet, leaving only Krem and his unfamiliar tunes hummed in her ear.

 

Before she can get too comfortable, Charlie thinks of Devi, a pang running through her chest. She knows it’s foolish to feel guilty, that she was not the cause of any failed confession or fizzled non-romance. But for a moment she feels as though she is equally to blame. How could she relish in the absolute comfort that Krem and his love brought knowing that Devi was as lost as Charlie was cocooned.

 

She feels Krem stir, and she grips his hand tightly. “Don’t let go.” Her voice is filled with a strange sense of urgency, and she decides that she will allow herself this brief moment of bliss.

 

“Not on your life,” he replies.

 

And Charlie can say for certain that he means it.


	41. Alone, Together

_“Devi, what are you doing?”_

 

The phrase has etched itself into the minds of everyone at Skyhold. Though no one could accuse her of being _normal_ , per se, Devi’s eccentricities had long since ceased to garner the attention of the general public. However, lately rarely a day had gone by where her actions went unnoticed and unquestioned. Gone were the days where she was greeted by a smiling hello, or maybe even a hug. Instead, she hears it hurled at her.

_“Devi, what are you doing?”_

Walking straight into a ditch being dug in the courtyard.

 

_“Devi, what are you doing?”_

Buttering a dagger instead of a slice of bread in the great hall.

 

_“Devi, what are you doing?”_

Forgetting to tie the knot on Mr. Peanut Butter’s lead while leading him out on walks.

 

“Devi, what are you _doing_?”

 

Now she finds herself asking that very question, her palms sweating as she stands outside the door to the baths. The missive had come, as all of them did, unsigned and stripped of any linguistic frills. It was a writing quirk that she had once found endearing, but now had left her shaky with indecision. _It’s not like I’m afraid of him_ , she reasons. _That’s not why I didn’t go down to the gardens with Charlie earlier. I’m just – damn it, I’m busy too!_

 

She wrings her hands together in frustration. It was his fault, strutting around the way he did. Going around punching whoever looked at her funny. Toying with her like a dragon might lay a bed of fire down on a goat. But she had tried to play on her terms. To only go where she might have the upper hand, the comfort necessary for remaining in charge. _And then he goes and does this._

 

Devi must admit, it is a power play.

 

_You’re the Inquisitor, damn it. You’re a Ph.D. A fucking child prodigy. You’re not afraid of some bitter old man._ Devi jumps up and down, shaking herself out from her head to her toes. _Now let’s limber up, go in there, and crack some ex--Templar skull._

 

Like a one-man battering ram, she pushes through the door; letting it slam behind her as she storms into the room. The air in the bathhouse is heavy and tinted with herbs, and it steams up her glasses and leaves her temporarily paralyzed. She comes to a screeching halt, tearing the offending lenses from her face and peering through the haze. If her judgment is to be trusted, Samson is the lone bather – probably a fortunate thing, seeing as the sight of the Inquisitor storming furiously into the men’s baths was no way to earn the respect of her troops. Wiping the steam from her glasses, she lifts them to confirm. He reclines in the tub furthest from the door, head lolled back, and face covered by a towel.

 

She considers turning tail and running. _Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s forgotten all about why he asked you here. Maybe –_

 

“I can only wait so long, Inquisitor.”

 

She doesn’t remember his voice ever sounding quite so husky, can’t think of a time where he’s ever drawled oh-so-casually in her direction. Her knees wobble, and – shaking like a leaf on the Strom Coast – she forces herself forward. Though she’s sure that her footsteps are silent, bare feet on the stone floor making no noise that her ears can discern, he seems to know to turn just as she reaches the edge of the tub, the towel falling from his face and landing on the water’s surface.

 

No one speaks, the only sounds coming from the bathwater sloshing gently against the tub walls. Devi swallows hard, forcing her eyes to remain above the waterline. “This reminds me of _Spirited Away_ ,” she says loudly. “Have you seen it? Of course you haven’t, how could you. But the baths, they remind me of _onsen._ Not that I’ve ever been to an _onsen_ , I’ve never been to Japan.” She shakes her head. “There was this Korean bathhouse that was a little similar? I went a few times with some friends. Very relaxing, yeah, but it wasn’t the same. But this is a little more picturesque.” Devi gestures vaguely, her face growing hotter and hotter under Samson’s amused stare. “Varric tells me that this is all Dwarven architecture. With the stone and stuff? Dorian used a word in Tevene –”

 

“ _Dweomer_ ,” he says.

 

“Yeah okay,” she pulls at her shirt, attempting to fan the fabric frantically enough to cool herself. “Is it warm in here? I mean, I guess yeah, because the baths. Maybe I should go. I’m gonna go. It’s cold in my room – I think I’ve told you that before. But I need that, the cold. Nothing else.”

 

“Devi.”

 

She is practically on the verge of tears by the time he says her name, her face hot and her words a flustered tangle inside of her mouth. Devi braves a look down, a whimper escaping her as she does so. He stands facing her, a single hand outstretched. The weight of her day threatens to send her crumbling, and she finds that she can’t get out of her clothes fast enough. She throws them carelessly to the side, yanking the glasses from her face and tossing them onto the pile before practically jumping into his arms. Her mouth cannot find Samson’s fast enough, fingers tangling in his hair, trying to draw him impossibly closer.

 

One arm latches around her waist, his other hand urging her legs to wrap around his hips before settling down to grip her ass roughly. Devi yelps, drawing back and shaking her head as he continues to trail kisses along her jaw. “No, wait, I,” her thoughts cloud as he rolls his hips into hers, tongue trailing down the column of her throat. “We need to talk about what Charlie said.” She tries to wriggle from his grasp, flushing deeper when this only prompts a throaty chuckle to leave his mouth. Pressing her hand against his lips, she pushes his head back. “I mean it. We need a game plan here.” Her voice is high and frantic, her breath ragged and thoughts cloudy.  

 

Samson tugs her hand away, drawing his thumb along her wrist before pressing it to his lips. “I don’t want to talk about Cowden,” he murmurs, gripping her hips and nipping at her ear. He turns, sitting on the inner ledge and adjusting her in his lap. “Tell me,” his voice sends shockwaves through her, and – had she not been trapped in his lap – her legs might’ve given out at the sound. “How did you manage to spend the whole day without me?”

 

She hadn’t managed at all, and Devi is certain that he knows this. Since their conversation following the fight with Cullen, Devi had barely managed to last an afternoon without her mind straying to that morning in the training shed. Samson’s strong hands gently cradling her face, the coolness of the stone wall against her back. How was she, then, to explain to Charlie that the only reason that she had disapproved of her plan to place Samson in a co-advisor seat was due to a crippling sense of doubt at her ability to make it through an advisor meeting without straddling him on the war table.

 

“I just think that,” she squints, trying to think past the increasingly-hard-to-ignore instrument pressing against her inner thigh. “What,” she looks into his eyes, desperately searching for something she can’t put her finger on. “What if you get tired of seeing me all the time? What if this is just sexual tension? Because you feel indebted to me, and you’re mistaking it for lust?”

 

The smile leaves his face, replaced by something she can only interpret as hurt. Before she can take it back, worrying that she has ended them before anything more than a few (sometimes literal) rolls in the hay could come about, he nudges her closer. “Is that what you think this is?” He lifts a hand, wiping away a tear that she hadn’t realized had escaped her eye. “Genlock, had I acted on lust alone, I would’ve done this months ago. Had I not been” he snorts, “so _selfish_ , I might’ve been the one to initiate things. Before you could start pushing me away, even.” Samson shakes his head, “You were so fragile. A far cry from the force of nature that had knocked me down on the battlefield. I thought it necessary to wait, to bide my time until you had built yourself up again. But,” he cradles her cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips. “That was never you, was it?

 

“You spend so much time taking care of others, but no one ever thinks that you might need to be taken care of, do they.” His hand is strong on the back of her neck, his lips soft against her own. “But I’ll take care of you,” he says quietly. “You won’t ever have to shoulder it alone again.”

 

The promise echoes in the air around them, and Devi can’t stop the sobs shuddering through her body. She presses her face against his shoulder, a feeble attempt to preserve even the barest shred of dignity. “It’s a shitty job,” she mumbles. “It’ll make you miserable. Even more miserable than you usually are.”

 

He chuckles, placing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Not as miserable as I’d be without you.” Eveen if it is only temporary, the world seems to right itself around them. The sound of the water lulling her into an exaggerated sense of safety. For the first time in a long time, Devi feels at peace.

 

“Now,” a wolfish grin spreads Samson’s mouth when she glances up at him. “Why don’t you and I work out the terms of my promotion.”


	42. How Charlie Got Her Groove Back

“I know he’s not _technically_ part of the inner circle,” Charlie frowns. “But I need Krem at the Winter Palace.”

 

He doesn’t know how he’s wormed his way into the final war room meeting about the Winter Palace, but somehow, he’s managed to do it. Krem stands at Charlie’s side, trying his damnedest to ignore the coy look that Leliana is giving him from across the table. Since that _unfortunate_ incident, he had found that Leliana and (to a lesser extent) Lady Montilyet could barely meet his eyeline without dissolving into giggles and knowing looks. And right now, as he stands there among the other companions, he finds that the magnifying glass has never felt quite so strong.

 

“I’m sure you do, Inquisitor.” Leliana replies, her tone laden with innuendo, “But –”

 

“ _But_ ,” Lady Montilyet interrupts her. “We do have to think of the possibility of suitors attending the ball.” She adjusts the ever-present clipboard in her arms. “I know that you and Lieutenant Aclassi have cultivated a very strong relationship, but we cannot isolate potential suitors who may be looking to spend some _personal_ time with the Inquisitor. Of course we aren’t asking you to do anything to jeopardize your relationship, but,” she gives Krem a sympathetic look. “It is something necessary to continue forging political ties among those who are yet to be swayed to our cause.”

 

Krem nods solemnly. This was nothing he hadn’t suspected. Though when they were alone, Charlie was simply _his_ Charlie, there were times he had to remind himself that she was bigger than the two of them. That she was indeed the Inquisitor and had certain obligations to –

 

“No.”

 

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he turns to see Charlie standing with her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Inquisitor?” Lady Montilyet frowns in confusion, her tone gentle.

 

“I said,” Charlie’s voice shakes. “No. I’m tired of, of parading around like the poster child of the Inquisition. Always having to be so careful about what I say, or what I don’t say, or who I show my magic to. I’ve done what you’ve wanted without questioning it, but I won’t do this.” Her eyes water, and she draws her hand furiously across her face. “I’m not going to stand here and let you pimp me out to any nobles for political gain. This,” she grabs Krem’s hand and a jolt of electricity runs through his body. “This isn’t just some end-of-the-world fling. It’s not fair to me or Krem to pretend that we aren’t together, no matter what anyone thinks.”

 

“Your worship,” he says quietly. Krem glances around the room, wondering briefly if it’s really okay to air their dirty laundry out in front of everyone like this. Deciding that he doesn’t really care or have anything to hide, he frowns. “Are you sure, love? You’re the Inquisitor.”

 

“Not if it means this,” she says seriously, her eyes burning as she stares at him. “Not if it means pretending not to be with you.”

 

“Well,” they are caught off guard by the sound of the Chief’s rumbling voice speaking up from the other side of the room. “Why don’t we have Killer do the schmoozing?” He claps Devi on the back. “You’re single and ready to mingle, aren’t you?”

 

Krem doesn’t miss the sideways glances shot in Samson’s direction. Among the more _involved_ members of the Inquisition, the anticlimactic end to the Samson-Devi saga had been a sore spot. As though it weren’t enough that the world was ending, it seemed that even raging tempers and gallant shows of force were not enough to bring the two together. Krem had to admit that even he had been disappointed. After the display that had interrupted their lesson, he had been sure that the only possible outcome was romance. But it appeared that the older man’s feelings for Devi were truly born out of a sense of responsibility, a rabid sense of loyalty as a sort of thank you for redemption.

 

“Uh,” Devi’s nose creases, her foot tapping against the stone. “I mean, I guess I – do you really want me? I mean, look, I can’t talk to those people. I don’t know how to judge cheese firmness. Isn’t that what rich people talk about?”

 

“Yes,” Lady Montilyet frowns. “Well, no, but I would be happy to sit down and coach you on any potential topics, should Inquisitor Cowden truly refuse.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Then,” she nods, “you, Leliana, and I will make time before tonight to prepare some topics that might be of some use.”

 

Krem glances at Devi, frowning when she returns his look with something bordering on a grimace. “Love,” he whispers as Lady Montilyet continues down the itinerary. “Does Devi look,” he pauses, “ _off_ to you?” He waits for Charlie to glance down the line before continuing. “Look at her, she’s sweating.” He squints, watching the drops bead on her forehead when she notices them staring. “Dripping, really.”

 

“Maybe she’s nervous,” Charlie’s face is flooded with concern. “She doesn’t talk to the nobles, it’s really stepping out of her comfort zone.”

 

Krem hums, focusing his attention back to Lady Montilyet just in time for her to dismiss the group save for a select few. “Inquisitors,” she hesitates for just a moment, “Samson, please; if you would.”

 

He goes to leave, but Charlie places her hand on his arm, mouthing that it should only take a moment longer.

 

“Now,” Lady Montilyet looks uncertain, a far cry from her usual diplomatic form. “As you both know, there have been some reservations regarding Commander Cullen’s ability to shoulder both the stress of both his role at Skyhold and his,” she frowns slightly, “affliction.” Lady Montilyet nods at Charlie, “Now, Inquisitor Cowden, you suggested that Samson join Cullen as Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. And,” she looks down at Devi. “Devi, you said that things should remain as they are.”

 

Krem raises his eyebrows, watching as Devi’s knees wobble. “I,” she stammers. “Don’t get me wrong, Samson’s an okay dude. But I just,” she gestures vaguely at Leliana. “Lels, you know the Game better than anyone. Wouldn’t it look weird if we put like – isn’t it bad to let ex-baddies on your administrative team? I mean, if I were a noble with shit-tons of money? I’d see that and be like, ‘Hey what’s next? You gonna give Corypheus the throne?’ And then I would keep my money and buy like, a solid gold toilet or something. I mean,” her foot taps idly against the stone, and Krem can’t understand why she’s so nervous. “What if they had just let Bane into the Justice League? Or given him a key to the Bat Cave? Not like he needed it, he got in. But it’s the same principle, and now Bane is going to command the troops?”

 

“Well I for one have _no_ idea what a Bat Cave is,” Charlie places her hand over Devi’s mouth when she shrieks in protest. “But I am more than confident that Samson will be a fine addition to our advisory board.” She looks at him and smiles, “Won’t you, Raleigh?”

 

There is something calculating in her smile, something ambitious and knowing that Krem finds, only for a moment, incredibly jarring (and yet unsettlingly sexy all the same). Samson’s smile is equally wolfish, though Krem suspects there is a different motive behind this. “Thank you, Cowden. And,” he bows deeply, “I do hope you change your mind, Inquisitor. I believe you’ll find that I can be a very valuable asset, should I put my mind to it.”

 

“Well then,” Lady Montilyet sets her clipboard down. “I do believe we’ve exhausted our schedule for today. Charlie, you have one more gown fitting before we leave. The seamstress should be waiting for you in your quarters. And, Devi,” she smiles patiently. “We can begin our training now, if you have time.”

 

“Ye-yeah.”

 

They trickle out of the war room and into Lady Montilyet’s office. Samson is the first to leave, nodding at Charlie before squeezing past them and disappearing down the hall. Charlie threads her arm through Krem’s as they saunter out into the hallway, her face calmer than he has seen it in quite some time. “What should we do with the rest of our day,” she asks. “I just have to do adjustments on this dress, but then I’m –”

 

“Charlie!”

 

Devi’s voice echoes around them, and they turn slowly to see her standing stiffly at the end of the corridor. Charlie raises an eyebrow, laughing. “Well don’t just stand there! I feel like you’re about to challenge me to a fight.”

 

“I,” she’s sweating again, her words almost as uncertain as her expression. “I need to talk to you. Just you, not Krem.” She winces, even though he hasn’t said anything. “Sorry, Kremit.”

 

“I thought you were going over etiquette and diplomacy 101 with Josie.” When she mumbles something about urgency, Charlie waves a hand. “No, no, go do your lesson, baby.” She smiles apologetically, “I know that I sort of sprung this on you, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. I mean, you’re smarter than people give you credit for. You’ll show those nobles a thing or two about politics.”

 

“Yeah, okay. But –”

 

“Inquisitor,” Lady Montilyet pokes her head through the door. “Are you ready?”

 

Devi stares at them long and hard before sighing defeatedly. “Yeah,” she turns. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

 

Krem and Charlie continue down the hall. “Do you really think she’ll be okay?” He asks once they’ve entered the stairway to the Inquisitors’ wing. “She looked nervous.”

 

“You don’t know Devi like I do,” she replies. “She can do anything. She just needs to believe in herself.” Charlie leans forward, planting a kiss on his lips with a resounding smack that echoes around them. “Now then, this is where I leave you.” She grins, the sight sending flutters through his chest. “It’s bad luck to see me before the big night, you know.”

 

He chuckles, waving her along. “Go on, go on.” Krem watches Charlie take the stairs two at a time, his heart swelling when she turns to give him a wink. Perhaps they would make it through this after all.

 

 

 


	43. Lovefool

Only fools believed in the healing power of love. As though something so trivial, so fleeting could possibly right the ills that the world was determined to throw at mankind. That anything less than cold, hard survival could begin to protect you from the harsh realities of life during war. Love was for the weak, for those who needed a place to hide from the inevitability of their own demise. An empty promise for children, to shield them from the world around them.

 

And as one of those fools, Samson finds that he, too, is cocooned in love’s soft embrace.

 

The door to his study bursts open with a bang, Devi storming in like a stampeding druffalo and slamming it behind her. “What are we gonna do?” She asks, her voice high and frantic.

 

“Hello, Genlock,” he doesn’t lift his gaze from the missives in his hands. “Have you eaten yet?”

 

“They want me to flirt, Samson. They want me to meet and greet; to be wined, dined, and sixty-nined!” She rakes her hands through her hair, “What am I going to do? We agreed to keep things quiet, and god knows I don’t want Charlie to have to do this. _Fuck_ ,” the curse is accompanied by a sharp stomp against the floor. “Why is romance part of the deal? Suitors? The fucking _world_ is ending. How can these people be worried about getting their dicks wet at a time like this?” Her glare focuses on him, “And you! What do you have to say about this?”

 

Samson’s chin rests on his hand, a foolish grin splitting his mouth so wide he’s sure his lips must be bleeding. “You’re quite cute when you rile yourself up like this, you know.”

 

Maker, does he love the way her face flushes. The way it creeps from the base of her neck to the tips of her ears. Devi sputters, waving her hands wildly. “Shut,” she manages to squeak out. “Shut it! Shut it right now! This is not the time, nor the place, nor the _atmosphere! Can’t you read the atmosphere?_ ”

 

“No,” he replies, grinning as she rounds the desk to stand over him. “Might you explain it to me?”

 

Devi opens her mouth, whatever tirade she is about to embark on lost in the shriek that leaves her mouth as he pulls her into his lap. “Let _go_ ,” she demands, squirming in his grasp.

 

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Now, now, Genlock, you know that struggling only makes things worse.” Anchoring her with one arm wrapped tightly around her middle, he catches her chin between his fingers, pulling her in just long enough to press his lips to the corner of her mouth. She manages to yank herself from his grasp, and he has to scramble to keep his grip on her before she tumbles to the floor. “Alright, alright,” he leans back as she jumps to her feet. “What is so troubling?”

 

“What is so troubling,” she repeats flatly. “What? Is so troubling?” Devi blinks at him as though he’s quite slow. “Are you kid– Samson, were you at that meeting?” When he raises a brow in response, she throws her hands up in an exaggerated show of exasperation. “Well let’s see, shall we, Raleigh?” To his utter delight, she begins counting off on her fingers. “We are leaving for Halamshiral in less than two days. Charlie and I have to worry about an _assassin_ , and my sari is going to be wrapped so tightly, I won’t be able to fucking _move_ should there be a fight. For some ungodly reason _you_ ,” she points accusingly.

 

“Me?” He gestures to himself amusedly. “What about me?”

 

“You,” she holds his face in her hands, tiny fingernails biting into his cheeks. “You, you delectable monster, you, have wormed your way onto the advisory board despite a _number_ of post-coital promises assuring me that this would not happen. So now,” Devi releases him and begins pacing. “Now I’m going to be forced to treat you like Cullen 2: The Squeakual –”

 

“Maker forbid.”

 

“While Charlie and the others are mere feet away. And speaking of Charlie,” she whips around. “It has been two weeks, and I still haven’t broken the news to her that this is even happening. And I’m pretty sure that it’s giving me an ulcer. Oh!” Devi resumes her pacing, and Samson fights the urge to cross the room and scoop her up like an unruly pet. “And now I’m going to not only be concealing my secret relationship with my traitorous new commander, but I’m going to be doing it while playing grab-ass with a bunch of rich assholes!” She stops her pacing, doubling over with her hands pressed against her thighs. “God, I’m gonna ralph.”

 

“Hm,” Samson runs his thumb along his lips.

 

“You’re thinking. You look like you’re thinking. Are you? Are you thinking? What are you thinking?”

 

“I’m thinking,” he replies. “That I find your neurosis to be incredibly charming.”

 

This is all she needs to erupt, and he can practically see the steam rising from her face as she advances upon him. “I’m killing myself panicking over everything, and you’re thinking about how hard it makes you?”

 

“Well I didn’t say th–”

 

 “I can’t even go to Charlie with this because that would only worry her, which means _you_ , for some ungodly reason, are my confidant,” her voice is shrill. “And you can’t stop thinking with your dick long enough to help me?”

 

Tears spring into her eyes, but for once he finds no amusement, and gently he rises to guide her into a chair. “Come now, Genlock, there’s no need for that.” He produces a handkerchief from his pocket, crouching in front of her and wiping away her tears. “What’s this really about? You don’t think I’m upset with this arrangement, do you?” Maker knew if there was one thing he understood, it was duty. And the duty of the Inquisitor was as plain as anything to anyone. He might’ve been the only person in the room who thought so, but he had found Cowden’s refusal to play to Inquisition politics incredibly ballsy.

 

“ _I’m_ upset,” she wails, snatching the rag from his hand. “I’m upset! I don’t want to play politics, and I don’t want to hide things from anyone.” She blows her nose loudly. “But I don’t want Charlie to have to do it either because,” Devi hiccups. “She and Krem have been through so much. They deserve to cut loose at this stupid thing, as much as they can. And,” she gestures to him. “You and I are just starting out. It shouldn’t be so serious, but I just hate how it works!

 

“All this image-saving, all this worrying.” She grabs his hands, squeezing tightly as her eyes bore into his. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I think that’s something that the world should know.”

 

Samson doesn’t know what to say. He has never _belonged_ to anyone, at least not in the heartfelt sense that Devi was attempting to physically-squeeze into his hands. His only sense of belonging had ever been at the end of exploitation. He had belonged to the Order. Had belonged to Corypheus. But to think that he might belong to Devi, and that she might give herself to him – his heart flutters, the idea that some foolish noble might think themselves to be in the same position suddenly makes him quite angry.

 

She sighs deeply, releasing him. “But that’s selfish, and I can’t think like that anymore. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That’s why you’re frowning so hard. You’re thinking that I’m the Inquisitor and I have respo–”  

 

“Okay,” he cuts her off, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and leaning into her. When she frowns, he lifts a hand to smooth the wrinkle over her nose. “Okay, let’s do it.”

 

“Do what, what are you,” her eyes narrow. “Please tell me that this isn’t getting you all hot and heavy.”

 

He chuckles, drawing his thumb along her cheek and pinching it. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Genlock. I’m talking about a symbol.” Samson lifts a brow, “You said it yourself, something to show that you are mine, and I am yours.” He rests his chin upon his hand. “Why don’t we get married?”

 

Devi snorts, nudging her knee against his chest. “Okay, yeah, let’s get married. Sure, Raleigh.” He watches as the gears work behind her eyes, her eyebrows slowly drawing into another deep frown as she glances at him. “Wait a minute, are you – you’re seriously saying that we should get married. What are we, a TLC show? Married at first sight? First sight and two weeks? We can’t even get to Vegas. My mom isn’t here, I,” she sits up suddenly, gripping him by the shoulders. “Are you fucking with me right now? Because I swear on all that is holy, I will _end_ you, Raleigh Samson. I will –”

 

“I’m not,” he kisses the inside of her wrist. “I would’ve offered sooner, had I thought of it.”

 

“Do,” the blush is back, covering her face as she sputters. “Do we need – who do we call? I have a bag of rings in my desk, but I’m pretty sure those are cursed, and I don’t think rings taken from dead bodies are appropro. Is there some kind of,” she squints, “do we get a priest? Y’all got priests here, right? Or, well I’m not even religious. A judge, maybe? But wait, I’m the judge. Wait, wait,” she shakes him. “Raleigh, Raleigh, _I’m_ the Inquisitor. Who the fuck is going to argue this with me? I’m,” Devi bolts out of the chair, knocking him to the ground as she runs to the door. “I’ll be right back,” she says breathlessly, hovering in the doorway. “Just, just wait for me. Don’t leave.”

 

Samson cracks another foolish grin, pressing his back against his desk. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. He glances around his small office, noting how quickly it had managed to slip into disarray. There was a strange beauty in the chaos, one that made him feel weightless and giddy.

 

_All of this is turning you into a sentimental fool_ , he thinks, drawing a knee to his chest. He doesn’t think it such a bad thing.


	44. A Nightmare in Four Parts

_I: Evisceration_

 

The blood pools in the back of his throat, and once again he is powerless to stop it. The blade in his chest is cold, the frost seeping through his veins and nipping at his fingers and his toes. He wants to close his eyes, to feel no pain and ascend to whatever Maker or paradise might be waiting. But there is no release, and he cannot look away. Instead he feels the twist of the blade in his chest, grinding his tissue to a pulp. Slow, agonizing. Every nerve in his body flares to life as the faceless reaper above him plunges the sword ever deeper. The muscle tears, fibers snapping and withering with each deliberate motion. Tissue pulverized until it liquifies into something gory and foreign.

He turns his head, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth but doing nothing to lessen the pressure in his throat. He can see her on the cliffs above, standing stiff, solemn – watching the carnage below with the grim acceptance of a powerless judge.

 

Maker, even in his nightmares she is beautiful. Her hair – a cloud of blackened smoke – whips around her face. And though her eyes are devoid of the warmth he has come to love, they disarm him all the same. However, before he can take some comfort in his frozen idol, a shadow looms behind her – malevolence poised like a dagger in its hands.

 

For a moment he is running. Running like a madman to protect the one thing he cannot live without. But the pain in his chest does not subside, the blood in his throat continues to pool, and he finds that he cannot close his eyes and blind himself to the killing blow that strikes her down.

 

* * *

 

 

_II: Stained_

She cannot clean the blood from her hands, cannot shake the weight of the dagger from her palms. The walls around her leave no space for movement, no room for comfort; and she finds that no matter how hard she tries, she cannot scream.

 

Her fingernails are red, chipped and caked with blood.

 

_Whose? I can’t remember._

She tears at her throat, leaving angry track marks, mouth ripped open in the scream for help that never comes. She knows the walls are closing in, knows they tell tales of all the evil she’s done. She has long since given up on beating her fists bloody against the stone, the walls stained red with remorse and regret.

 

The harsh grate of stone grinding against stone, and she tears herself from the cell bar at the sight of a most unwelcome apparition. Her heart slams, the panic rising as she spews silent, fevered apologies; clawing at her eyes that it might grant her temporary relief from her heaviest sin. The stone calls out, a sickly-sweet song hungering for retribution. She had cut down their true leader, and it was only fitting that she would pay the ultimate price. The scream tears at her throat, her bones splintering as the walls close in.

 

She had spilled too much blood, and now she would pay with her own.

 

* * *

 

 

_III: Merciless_

He stands with a blade in his hand, sand whipping around his face and a familiar hum in his blood. _Red lyrium, and lots of it_. His blood surges, adrenaline coursing through his veins. _This is power. This is survival._ All around him are familiar faces, the desert littered with men foolish enough to stand in his way.

 

And there was only one man standing now.

 

His stomach lurches, knees buckling at the sight of the Inquisition emblem glinting proudly on her breast. There are tears in her eyes, but he knows she does not cry for him. The bodies at his feet, members of the Inquisition who he had gotten to know well. Those he had found it all too easy to betray.

_And now I must betray you too._

 

His feet carry him forward, sunlight glinting off his blade as he prepares himself to charge. He wants to scream, to stop his legs and lower himself at her feet. _Someone stop me,_ he stares pleadingly into those tired, angry eyes. _You need to stop me._

 

But he is fueled by rage and rot, and he cuts her down with a fluid swing of his sword. The hatred in her eyes shakes him to his core, and he whimpers as he brings the blade down again and again, his ears deaf to everything but the sound of blood gurgling in her throat and a death rattle that wouldn’t end.

 

He lifts the sword above his head, staring into her small, defiant face until the tears blur his vision and he sees no more. Before he plunges the blade into her throat, he sees it. The noble Inquisitor draped in white, mahogany skin stark across the barren landscape. Something splinters within him, and he is finally able to scream. “Stop me, Cowden! You need to stop me.” His fingers tighten around the hilt. He surges forward. “Quick, you have to –”

 

* * *

 

 

_IV: Beautiful Dreamer_

_“Stop!”_

 

Charlie wakes with a jolt, lunging forward with her hand outstretched. It takes a moment for her to process where she is, to forget where she has been. The sheets beneath her are damp with sweat, Krem writhing in his sleep beside her.

 

It had begun to happen frequently, but it had never happened quite like this. The dreams that she had intercepted had been fragmented. Light vignettes of her companions’ unconsciousness. _But this_ , she can still see the visions in her mind. Krem’s body flayed like a slaughtered pig. Devi clawing furiously at her skin, the sound of her bones being crushed between the walls only second to her blood-curdling screams. Samson charging Devi on the battlefield, sobbing as he kills her over and over again.

 

She rakes a hand through her hair. _What’s happening here? Right when we thought we had done something right._

 

A sharp knock at her chamber door draws her momentarily from her thoughts, and gently she places a soothing kiss to Krem’s temple before wrapping herself in a robe and rising from the bed. Harding stands on the other side of the door, her eyes bloodshot and her voice tired. “Lace, what’re you –”

 

“No time, Inquisitor,” she says, curt but not unkind. “I think you’re gonna want to see this.”


	45. The Queen is Dead. Long Live the Queen

“We feared you would not make it,” Gaspard’s hand lands on hers, his skin clammy even through her bandages. “Lady Montilyet’s memo was,” he pauses, thin lips curling into something resembling a grimace. “Unclear,” he finishes as diplomatically as someone like him can.

 

She takes her hand back, her face setting into a plastic smile she is sure she’ll be wearing for the rest of the week. “Given our circumstances, I hope you’ll be able to excuse it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The bridge is in shambles, the gauntlet destroyed, and there is a Hawke-shaped hole in the sky. Charlie flexes her right hand. It had all happened so quickly, the events of the last hour so chaotic that they had hardly had the time to make a lasting impression on her memory. And yet, as paradoxical as it was, she knew that tonight was a night that she would never be able to forget. No matter how hard she might try.

 

Lace leading her out onto the battlements, the largest rift she had ever seen swirling above their heads. Through their travels, both together and apart, Charlie and Devi had learned that many of the rifts had been sealed following Adrien’s closing of the Breach; these smaller tears unable to sustain themselves without the gateway to the Fade. They had made quick work of those few that had remained, but those had been weak. Already knocking at death’s door. But the rift that had spat Hawke back to the earth had been far from weak. It was angry. Defiant.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

She turns. Samson stands in the doorway, brow furrowed and shirt bloody. Charlie glances back at her hand. Though she had felt the sting of shrapnel from the explosion, she had required no medical attention; and her hand bore no sign of injury save for the faint roadmap of glowing scars. Scars visible only to the intently-seeking eye.

 

“That’s the weird thing,” she says softly. “It should hurt more. I mean,” she frowns at him, squinting as she does so. “You saw it, right? It shattered. Like closing that one rift was too much for it.” The gauntlet had burnt her. Or, at least, she thought it had. It had burnt her and shattered right before her eyes, the sparks blinding her and sending her party running for cover.

 

Samson fidgets. In the time she had known him, Charlie had been quick to learn that this was not a man with the time or patience to mince words. She voices this, prompting him to guffaw dryly. “I don’t think it was the rift, Cowden.”

 

She knows what he’s getting at. She hadn’t needed to see her reflection to know that something strange had occurred out there. That the stares she had received as she headed back through the gates had been as fearful as they were admiring. “How’s Devi,” she asks, hoping to turn his attention elsewhere.

 

“Fine, sulking,” he says flippantly. At the sight of Charlie’s sour look, he holds a hand up. “I took her to the healer and came straight here, Cowden. I’m sure your team can handle it.”

 

* * *

 

“Inquisitor, we have a problem.”

 

She leaves the meet-and-greet with Gaspard feeling drained and in need of some quiet time. But she should have known that in the time it had taken to walk from the Duke’s suite to where the Inquisition would stay, a new set of trouble would have just enough time to arise.

 

The seamstress hired by Vivienne to take care of the Inquisitors’ formalwear places her hand on Charlie’s arm. “Inquisitor Suri locked herself inside, and she refuses to come out. I tried to find your advisors but,” she frowns. “I believe they’re still in their meetings.”

 

Charlie pats her hand absently, detaching herself and moving towards the door. “I’m going to give you to five,” she says, leaning casually against it. “To either open up or start talking before I start using magic.” She pauses, listening for any signs of life on the other side. When she hears nothing, save for the sound of her own breathing, she begins counting. “One, two, three,” she lifts a brow, “fourrr.”

 

The door opens just enough for half of Devi’s face to peer out at her. “That’s not fair,” she says sullenly. “I don’t have magic.”

 

“What’s the matter with you,” she asks gently, reaching out the brush the hair out of her eye. “First you don’t talk to me on the way over, and now this?” Devi tries to shut the door, but Charlie already has her foot in the frame. “Come on, baby, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

 

Devi blinks up at her, and for a minute Charlie thinks she’s managed to win this round. Instead, Devi’s hand shoots out, shoving her back and slamming the door in her face. Before Charlie can think, can consider getting angry instead of compassionate, Devi speaks. “I need a new outfit.”

 

Charlie frowns. “Is that what this is about? A new –”

 

“I can’t fight in a dress. I can’t be useful and,” to her horror she hears Devi’s voice start to crack. “I can’t protect anyone – not you, not me, not anyone – if I can’t fight. I already,” she pauses, and Charlie hears what is either a small trumpet or the sound of her blowing her nose. “I already failed on the bridge. I can’t lose anymore. I won’t be able to live with myself.”

 

The door rattles, a dull thud coming from the other side. Charlie can only assume that Devi’s sunken onto the floor, so she lowers herself down and softens her tone. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Do you have something in mind? Something that we can whip up for tonight and then,” she glances at the seamstress, “fix up for the rest of the week?”

 

There’s a pause, the sound of a quill scratching against parchment. The sheet of paper flies out from under the door, and Charlie holds it up and tries (and fails) to stifle her laughter. “Okay,” she clears her throat, glancing up at the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the hall.

 

“What’s going on?” Samson strides towards them, face drawn in a severe frown. “Is Devi alright?”

 

Charlie ignores him, turning to the seamstress. “Do you think you’ll be able to do something like this?”

 

“What is that, Cowden, a dead sheep?”

 

She places her hand over her mouth, attempting to smother her laughter as she motions for him to keep his mouth shut. “Okay, Devi, we’re having some trouble with the design. If you want it done, you’re going to have to come out and give us a hand.”

 

* * *

 

 

She stares at herself in the mirror, wondering how such a small change could make such a big difference. She stares down at her right hand, the bandages gone, and her fingers adorned with glittering rings. Her skin is a dark contrast against the crimson of her gown, black shawl hanging just below her slim shoulders.

 

For a moment she feels almost regal.

 

“Your worship.” Krem appears at her reflection’s side, his lips brushing against the nape of her neck. “Are you ready?”

 

Charlie feels an unfamiliar power humming in her veins, a new sense of confidence bubbling in her chest. Turning, she places a kiss to his cheek and grins. “Let’s get this party started.”

 


	46. Heartlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BACK...STREET'S...BACK...ALRIGHT!

“That’s Raleigh Samson, you know. He was the right hand of the Magister before the Inquisition captured him.”

 

Devi holds him tighter, her steps uncertain as she tries to adjust to the change in depth-perception warping her vision. _That’s ancient history_ , she shoots a look at the gossips, but they don’t seem to pay her any mind. Glaring, she learns, is not so effective with only one eye.

 

“Perhaps they’re using blood magic to keep him docile,” another masked vulture says. “The Inquisition has no shortage of mages, after all.”

 

Samson runs his thumb along her knuckles, his heart aching as her body stiffens against his own. Though he had promised Cowden and the Advisor Board that he would be on his best behavior, he finds that he cannot shake himself of the desire to act recklessly on Devi’s behalf. She caves into him, her face grim and anxiety-stricken, and he can’t help but think that he would slaughter every last noble in the room if it would put a smile on her face. Instead he leans down, his nose brushing against her temple. The closest thing to a kiss that he might deliver in this Maker-forsaken palace. “Ignore them, your worship.” He relishes in the sound of her breath catching in her throat, a flush creeping past her collar at the sound of the unusual title leaving his lips. “Focus on the task at hand.”

 

“What a mangy little thing, it’s no wonder she hasn’t taken a lover.” A vulture in an ornate mask sneers at her as Samson delivers her to her seat. “Especially not with Inquisitor Cowden around.”

 

She had picked it up as a hobby as a teenager, though she never thought that she would ever use it. Devi had been as rebellious as one could be with parents as free and understanding as her own. They had allowed her the piercings, the tattoos, the lockpicking sets – she might’ve even been able to set the house on fire if she had been so inclined, and they would’ve provided her with matches and kerosene. But the stick-and-poke tattooing, that had been something she had learned on her own. And though she knew that her parents were not fooled by her excuses of bible studies and study dates, and that they definitely did not start reading about pre-electric tattooing by mere coincidence alone; they had made it seem as though this was something belonging solely to her, and for that she had always been grateful.

 

Maybe that’s why, sitting under the watchful eye of Andraste’s fountain in the gardens, that she had felt so certain of the choice she had made. Samson’s thigh pressed against her own, their feet in the water and their conspiratorial giggling echoing through the empty garden. The guards had pretended too. Pretended that another emergency took them away from their normal rounds, leaving the battlements empty and the space their own little cocoon. A ring might’ve been easier, but there was something about the weight of his hand in hers, the sight of his furrowed brow as he painstakingly returned the favor. Though they had both faced greater injuries than a set of deliberate pinpricks, they hadn’t tried to shy away from the small yelps of discomfort; for it only made the gentle cooing of the artist all the sweeter. And when they had finished, their new markings of their union covered only by a thin layer of Royal Elfroot salve, the world had seemed to halt around them.

 

The ceremony had been theirs and no one else’s, and for that she would be forever grateful.

 

“Figures I would be sat next to you.” Cowden glowers at him, but her eyes sparkle with good-humor. “Even in Orlais, you’re a pain in my ass.”

 

He chuckles, sipping from the honeyed-wine poured by an unseen servant. “You’re in surprisingly good spirits, Cowden. I had assumed you’d be lost without your boy-toy.” He lifts a brow, watching as the boy in question dodges petting and prodding from the friendlier of the Empress’s guests. “Especially given his surprising popularity.”

 

Her face floods with affection, and she not-so-subtly blows Aclassi a kiss as he pouts in their direction. “Krem’s fine,” she says finally. “He’s doing all of this for me, you know.” Cowden sighs dreamily, her eyelashes fluttering. “Isn’t that gallant? He’s putting up with everything just to be near me. Sometimes I can’t believe just how lucky I’ve gotten.”

 

Samson understands the feeling well, understands the shock that gives way to an unending sense of gratitude. His dumb-luck had landed him right in Devi’s bed. Had flooded him with a drive to not only survive, but to live; a sensation that at times overwhelmed him to the point of tears. He glances down the length of the table, watching Devi speak animatedly with the King of Ferelden. She gestures in Samson’s direction, her hands drawing shapes in the air that send heat to his cheeks at the thought of what she might be saying.

 

“Maker’s tears, Cowden, you sound almost girlish.” He hides his grin in another mouthful of wine.

 

Her response is a laugh like the twinkling crystals of a chandelier. “Maybe so, but it doesn’t look like I’m alone on this one.”

 

“My advisors think I should find a wife.” Alistair is flushed from his cheeks to his ears, his eyes twinkling as he stares at her. “They think that Ferelden needs a queen. That I should’ve married Anora, regardless of whether I loved her or not.” He pouts, “But what is that? Marrying for political gain.”

 

She doesn’t know how she got stuck here. Alistair is sweet, especially after a few hearty glasses of brandy, but he is a whiny drunk and Devi doesn’t know just how much more polite nodding she can muster. “I think you should always look for love,” she says, watching Samson out on the dancefloor. Dorian had dragged him out from his hiding place along the wall, and she can barely hide the lovestruck grin on her face as she watches them coast along the floor.

 

“Look for love,” Alistair repeats. “I thought I was in love once, but I don’t think she ever loved me back.” He heaves a sigh, continuing to nurse his drink. “In our positions, how can we look for love? If you aren’t a threat, you’re a game-piece. A stepping stone for someone else’s political ambitions.” He snorts, emptying the glass. “Not to mention,” Alistair draws his hand across his mouth. “How hard it is to meet people when you’re surrounded by a personal guard.”

 

Devi can barely restrain herself from leaving the king and his woes, her toes curled against the marble floor as she watches Charlie shove Krem into Samson’s open arms. “I’ve met a lot of people,” she says finally. “Charlie and I met in Ferelden. The inner circle I met at Skyhold. I met you tonight and,” she finally tears her eyes away from the dancefloor. “I met Samson in the Approach. I’ve met a lot of people, and I’m sure you have too.”

 

Alistair cocks a brow. “Yes,” he begins slowly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. You know, most people would have kept the dangerous criminal in the dungeons, or maybe they would’ve executed him. But you,” he frowns at her. “You seem to enjoy parading him around.”

 

“What’s not to enjoy?” Devi gestures to the scene taking place on the dancefloor, Charlie and Samson chatting amiably in the midst of a waltz. “Look at him. Really look at him. He’s got dancing feet. _Dancing feet_ , Alistair! Built like a brick shithouse and,” she sighs. “Look at that bubble-butt.”

 

He stares at her, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth as he shakes his head. “I really don’t understand you.”

 

“Yeah?” She shrugs, throwing him a grin as she stands to take her place on the floor. “Join the club.”


End file.
